


Descent

by XmagicalX (Xparrot)



Series: Descent [1]
Category: The Real Ghostbusters
Genre: Abduction, Angst, Drugs, Gen, Ghosts, Hallucinations, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-08-01
Updated: 1999-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 81,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xparrot/pseuds/XmagicalX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a lot of beings out there with a grudge against the Ghostbusters. But the most dangerous threat isn't supernatural. Dr. Kenneth Ulster has been waiting since Columbia to get his revenge. Now there's an opportunity, and he will not miss this chance...</p><p>This is Peter Venkman. This is Peter Venkman on drugs. This is Peter Venkman pushed to the ragged edge of sanity, and can he or the guys survive it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Descent

**Author's Note:**

> _Descent_ was originally published as a novella-length zine, and is still available for purchase at [Agent With Style](http://www.agentwithstyle.com/) for those who would like a hard copy with lovely illustrations. I'm putting it online now at the request of a couple friends, for those who (like me) are mostly unfamiliar with print zines and accustomed to obtaining their fic on the Internet.
> 
> I finished this story in the summer of '99, before my senior year at college. Being as old as it is, I find much of the writing unsatisfying; my prose has developed in the intervening years, but there are some moments I remain proud of, and I find myself unwilling to rewrite and thus erase my past self's efforts. So the only changes from the original zine are HTML formatting and possibly a few fixed typos. As for the story itself, it was always intended to be an exercise in pure hurt/comfort, and as that I hope it still to be successfully entertaining!
> 
> ~XmagicalX  
> December, 2006

  
She didn't know it when she lost her life. It was some time before she realized she was dead, that her body lay stiff and cold wherever they had taken it, and her form now was that of an invisible wraith, ethereal, ineffective. At first she thought she was still caught in the dreams, but gradually she learned that this was reality, however fantastic and unforgiving it might be.

Her corpse had long since been removed, but her spirit remained in the dark place of her death. As the confusion lifted from her bit by bit, she realized she was confined. Trapped, just as she had been before—before her death, she remembered, every day with greater clarity. The one sensation of her physical living self that she still recalled was the pinch of the needle as they injected her, and then she had fallen into the stupefaction from which she had never wakened. Even in death, she was still in that black room.

Eventually, she learned to move beyond it, escape through the thick walls as if they were as insubstantial as she. She could not go far, but she explored as much as she was able, the long hallways, the other dark rooms. She could not leave the building, it seemed, forever circling it, or perhaps it was that the building stretched on forever; at any rate, she could never leave its walls.

As time passed she became aware of other presences. They seemed like ghosts to her, ephemeral, flighty forms, but ultimately she realized they were living beings, people as she once had been, some cool and calm, some hysterical with fear, their pure emotions as bright to her as words and expressions once had been.

Then she recognized one for what he was, who he was. And immediately she knew, by the rage running hot as her blood once had flowed, why she remained here.

Horror stories held that some ghosts haunted because they were too frightened to go on, and some had unfinished matters to attend to.

And some wanted vengeance on their murderers.

But there was little she could do now. The tiny strength she accrued with each passing day was hardly enough to affect anything, yet. So she waited, and planned, and watched.

Until she heard them talking, the three of them. She knew them all too well, but it was the one man for whom she burned. The others were cold and dangerous, and she would stop them if she could, but his evil was the greatest, a calculated and sadistic menace. Perhaps if she had known demons or other supernatural terrors, she would have judged him less harshly, but she knew only mortal men, and her fury hardly made her impartial. With every word he uttered, she writhed in rage, even as she closely attended to his measured baritone.

"We're in need, and I know the perfect candidates. It will hardly be any trouble to acquire them."

"All right," the other two agreed, and the woman asked, "When will you bring them?"

"In a week," he said, "and we'll begin immediately. It shouldn't take more than a few days; those I have in mind are admirably suited to this."

His casual tone belied the power of the emotions she sensed, however. Anger blazed in him, nowhere near a match to hers, but hot for a mortal man, an inferno in his icy soul. She pitied the souls who had inspired such feeling, wished there were some way to save them from her fate. In hopes of giving warning she stayed close whenever he was in the building that week, but he never gave a clue to his plans.

On the last day, she perceived him poring over a newspaper. Difficult as it was for her to read printed words now, with immense concentration she focused on the article he studied. A mention of an upcoming event at a local university, but she made out nothing more before he folded the paper. Desperately, she tried to open it again and succeeded in shifting the pages in the draftless room. He twitched, grabbed the rustling paper and stuffed it into his coat pocket, then hurried out the door as if he guessed her presence. Causing him even that small discomfort gladdened her, though it was nothing compared to what she planned.

Unable to find the identity of his candidates, she consoled herself that there was nothing she could have done as it was. Even if she had been able to go to them, and even if she had somehow made herself known, how likely was it that they would have heeded the warning of a hazy and unfamiliar ghost?

If she had learned their identities, she might have tried regardless. But she didn't, so instead she stayed quiet, continuing to observe, waiting for the best opportunity to take her revenge.

 

* * *

His day began ordinarily enough. Peter Venkman hadn't owned an alarm clock in years; he didn't need one. Not when he had three roommates, all, obnoxiously, morning people.

"Rise and shine!" Winston sang out, practically in his ear.

Following the standard routine, Peter muttered something unintelligible with appropriately insulting inflection, and pulled the covers over his head, hoping to steal at least five more minutes of sleep.

With a flourish that would have done a magician proud, Ray grabbed his blankets and tore them from his grip and off his bed, exposing him to the chill morning air. Peter yelped, "Hey! What gives?" and folded his pillow over his head in an attempt to block out the unwelcome sunlight. Voice muffled by the cushion, he demanded, "What's so important I gotta get up now?"

"Your speech," Ray said matter-of-factly.

Almost tripping over his discarded covers in his haste, the psychologist bolted out of bed, gasping, "How late is it—do I have time to shower—you didn't let me oversleep—?"

"Well, we were considering getting you up five minutes before, and seeing if you could get spiffed up and organize your notes that quickly—" Winston began.

"You could in college," Ray reminded him. "Remember that eight o'clock clinical psych course, when you'd set your alarm for seven fifty-nine?"

"Guys, if you—" Peter squinted across the room at Egon's digital clock. Seven-forty, an ungodly time in the morning for a man of his habits, but it gave him over an hour to get ready. "Thanks," he grinned with relief. "Not as young as I used to be, and we're not across the quad from the auditorium." Stretching, he headed for the bathroom, pausing at the doorway to yawn and remark, "I bet they planned it this way. Dean Yeager knew my habits—twenty dollars says he picked this time just to mess with me." He disappeared down the hall.

Ray called after him, "Paranoia like that will lose you money!"

"I'm just being logical," Peter hollered back. "It's too early to be paranoid!" He slammed the bathroom door and in a minute they heard the shower running.

Winston raised his eyebrows at Ray. "Seven fifty-nine?"

Ray grinned. "You should've seen him move. Class officially started five minutes past the hour—and I don't think he was late once the entire semester."

They headed downstairs to the kitchen, where Egon had put on coffee and was making scrambled eggs with a fork in one hand and a physics text in the other. He murmured a generic morning greeting without looking up from his book.

"Uh, you want me to do the eggs, Egon?" Winston asked, thinking of how ignominious it would be for the firehall to burn down due to the unnatural combination of science and breakfast.

Egon shook his blond head absently, took a moment before saying aloud, "No, no, I've got it covered." He stirred the eggs, still intent on his reading.

Ray was pouring milk into his coffee seemingly without a care in the world. Winston glanced at him speculatively, searching him for hidden notes or a concealed book, and found nothing but bright hazel eyes meeting his. "Hey, homeboy, why aren't you panicking? You've got a speech to give, too."

"Yeah, but mine's last," Ray explained. "And I already put the final touches on it last night. Do you want to hear? I've almost got it memorized. Let's see, 'Ladies and gentlemen, I've been with the Ghostbusters since we started the business, and in that time I have encountered no less than—'"

"That's okay, Ray," Winston said hastily, "I believe you. I'll hear it this afternoon, right?" When Ray bobbed his head in agreement, eagerly bouncing on his toes, Zeddemore sighed, "You know, I think I'm glad I wasn't at Columbia with you guys. Were you like this all the time?"

"Nope," Ray cheerfully replied. "Usually we were worse. Egon would forget to eat at all when he had a major lecture to plan, and Peter half the time would be working out a really impressive presentation and the rest would be running around ten minutes before his class started, calling us and everyone else to find who'd 'stolen' his notes—"

"Which usually were recovered under his bed," Egon's dry voice put in, though when they looked over, he was still bent over his text.

"And what about you?" Winston asked of Ray, when it became clear the physicist had offered all his divided concentration would allow.

Ray shrugged. "I was only a TA, never a professor, so I didn't have presentations, though I had classes. They'd rope me into assisting them sometimes—Egon, remember when I helped Peter with that ESP test in front of the parapsych class, and he got every answer? He was supposed to be showing its inaccuracy—the whole class called him 'Spooky' for the rest of the semester."

"Professor Spooky, as I recall," Egon amended, conclusively proving his multi-tasking capabilities.

Which were apparently strained, however, because gray smoke started to curl up from the scrambled eggs. Winston leapt forward and took them off the heat before they started to blaze, but the damage had already been done. Egon blinked in mild astonishment as Winston headed for the sink with the frying pan and scraped the charcoal remains into the garbage disposal. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's okay. Why don't I handle the meals for today?" Winston suggested with a sigh. "Breakfast and lunch, at least—am I invited to the dinner tonight?" He wasn't sure, not being a Columbia alum, but he figured if he was barred at the gate, he could call his girlfriend and arrange a date.

Ray immediately assured him otherwise, "Of course you are, they're honoring all the Ghostbusters! Janine could come, too, if she wasn't visiting her sister. They won't be giving you the award," he blushed a little, embarrassed either by the omission or the honor itself, "but they want you there anyway. Maybe you could speak then, too—"

"No, thanks," Winston hastily put him at ease. "I'm not giving a talk at all, if I can help it; I always hated public speaking in English class. And I don't care about the award. You guys are the ones who went through all that education; you should get something for it. 'Distinguished Graduates'--sounds good, and I'm glad for you." He was also glad that they were all being so honored; another Ghostbuster of the Year fiasco was not something he wanted to go through again. The guys were all the best of friends and not especially competitive, under normal circumstances, but his years with them had given Winston an idea of the cutthroat nature of scientific scholarship.

He would just as soon forget it all and do his job: bust the ghosts, help people, get the paychecks, and live a normal life the rest of the time—though his experiences on the job gave him an ever-wider definition of "normal." But his co-workers had other interests: Peter practically lived for his audience, soaking up the attention granted to heroes, and Ray and Egon enjoyed the scientific acclaim they were slowly winning, as they proved the validity of their work.

In the end, of course, when it came down to the wire, they all were just like Winston—the job and the team came first, over all the benefits. If Columbia wanted to give them the accolades they deserved for their accomplishments, more power to them. Winston would stick with his teammates, listen to their speeches, applaud their awards, and accept whatever attention was afforded him. And tomorrow they'd go back to busting, and the next class four or six or eight that came along wouldn't care less about what school any member of the team had attended, or what honors they had received.

Meanwhile, he made breakfast for his three distracted teammates, dropping bagels in the toaster and whipping up more eggs. Peter stumped down to the kitchen some minutes later, damp hair smoothed back and styled, attired in a remarkably tasteful and coordinated brown suit. His green eyes were at half-mast, however, and he didn't so much as mumble a good morning until he had absorbed a cup of coffee. Then he straightened, adjusted his tie and flashed a sharp smile at them. "How do I look?"

"Like a professional," Winston admitted. "Now if you can just stay awake while you talk, you'll be all set."

"Thank God for caffeine," Peter grinned. "I still don't know how they started Oxford before the discovery of the coffee bean. But, look, I'm up, I'm ready to go." He checked his watch. "I've got enough time to make it even through rush hour."

"A modern miracle," Egon murmured from behind his text.

Peter ignored him. "Better run, I'll catch you guys there—and Ray, if you make that face in the middle of it, you'll be sleeping with slimed sheets for a month. That's a promise, not a threat." He grabbed a bagel half just as it popped out of the toaster and took off down the stairs.

"Good luck!" Ray and Egon called after him.

Winston looked at the occultist. "'That face'?"

Ray's ears went pink. "Long story."

"Suffice to say, Peter does not appreciate cracking up in the middle of a serious lecture on the nature of hypnosis," allowed Egon.

"I didn't think he'd find it _that_ funny!" Ray protested.

"So, what was this expression?" Winston inquired.

After a momentary delay, Ray made it.

Winston laughed aloud before he could stop himself, then blinked, wondering how Ray could physically do that with his eyes. Let alone his cheeks. He could understand Peter's point; it would be awfully amusing to watch him struggle for control in the face of that, though...

Probably not worth it, considering the hell Venkman would give them about it afterward. And no telling what he might do during Ray's speech in retaliation.

"Better leave that one behind, homeboy," Winston advised with a final chuckle. "And eat up. If we're late for Pete's thing, we'll _never_ hear the end of it."

 

* * *

They were on time, all in their reserved seats when Peter walked onstage. He spotted them, gave them a quick, confident smile, and launched into his presentation.

It was good, Winston had to admit. He had never had the chance to see Peter as a professor, but people must have flocked to his classes if his lectures had been anything like this one. Fast-paced, though his patter was never too quick to understand; humorous enough to draw frequent laughter from his audience, but informative all the same. Venkman didn't haul out the dictionary like Egon and Ray did when talking science, but he knew his stuff, and could impart it so that it made sense even to a laymen. Which Winston wasn't, not anymore; he was almost more worried by how much he _did_ comprehend their spiels, when they got going. But most of the audience, although all educated men and women, weren't familiar with even the basic principles of ghostbusting.

Winston imagined this was one of the reasons for the talks, to give people a better idea of why they were bestowing this honor on these particular alumni. Judging from his speech, Peter was thinking along similar lines. He emphasized the important nature of their work, but not laying it on as he did for talk shows. Playing up the social obligations more than heroism, he discussed the dangers with a direct honesty that still put his audience on the edge of their seats.

The psychologist could be a first-class showman, owing in part to his father and his con-man ways. A hundred years ago the Venkmans probably would have been snake oil salesmen, but Peter had broken from that and was determined now to prove the value of what he did. And from the applause he got when he concluded, he did a pretty fine job of it.

As he stepped down off the podium, Winston caught him craning his neck, peering out into the auditorium with a slight frown. That vanished as he was mobbed by a crowd of well-dressed society members, professors and students, all clamoring for a few words. Peter caught the guys' eyes and grimaced, clearly preferring to sign autographs rather than answer questions, but giving into his fans no matter their nature.

The persistent ones accompanied him and the others Ghostbusters to lunch at a small cafe on campus, where a professor bought them all sandwiches and sodas. Gathered around the small round tables, Winston, Ray, and Egon didn't get a chance to more than nod congratulations to their colleague, drowned out by the more vocal or more interested followers. Those not so close turned their attention on the other Ghostbusters; Winston found himself trapped between an ancient history professor and a chipper sociology grad student, both seeking his opinion about the recent upsurge of interest in psychic phenomenon. Did he feel it was more closely tied to the approaching end of the millennium, or a consequence of the growing dissatisfaction with science as a result of medical failures and the uncertainty principles governing the universe according to modern theories of physics?

"Uh...." Winston began intelligently.

"Some of both," Egon offered, leaning over from his table to address the two and take the heat off his teammate.

_Thanks_, Winston mouthed gratefully, and the physicist nodded before plunging into the controversy. Swallowing his bite of sandwich, he turned to his other side, where Ray had managed to strike up a conversation about the merits of _Deep Space Nine_ versus _Babylon 5_ with three of the quieter members of the group. While Winston was not a fan of either program, he had been in the room enough while they were on not to be completely out of his depth, and joining the discussion did prevent other curious and baffling interrogators from pouncing on him unawares.

He hoped that tonight's dinner wouldn't be this bad. One hour was enough; two would be unendurable. Busting ghosts beat scholarly debates any day of the week—for all that even Peter, once he settled into it, seemed to be enjoying these fans' questions as much as the attentions of autograph hounds.

A little after noon, Egon excused himself to prepare for his own presentation, and the group dispersed. Moving from his center seat to drop into the open chair at Winston and Ray's table, Peter proudly displayed his achievements of the hour. Not one but two phone numbers, one a blonde grad student's and the other from a raven-haired society woman who, Winston had to admit, must have brains as well as class and beauty, considering what he had overheard them discussing.

She had also, quite clearly, been after more than intellectual stimulation. "Not much taste, though," Winston commented, "considering who she was talking with..."

With his audience gone, Dr. Venkman abandoned his poise long enough to stick his tongue out at his teammate. "The lady knows what she likes," he said. "I like that! And she appreciates my unique perspective on parapsychology."

"Didn't think there was anything else she'd go for," Winston muttered to Ray, just loud enough to be overheard, and they both grinned at Peter's mock-stricken look. Before he could come up with an appropriately cutting rejoinder, Ray reminded them of the time, and they hurried to the physics hall for Egon's presentation.

Winston had expected Peter's speech to be entertaining, if nothing else, but he was surprised to find himself enjoying Egon's as well. The physicist's topic, delving into the physical nature of ectoplasm and spirit phenomena, was intriguing, but the talk itself was interesting. Organized, as one would expect, and well-spoken in his even bass, but beyond that he managed to hold his audience's attention for the entire hour. His vocabulary actually seemed toned down from its usual precision—Winston wondered if he had managed to pare it himself, taking time to word things more prosaically, or had he gone to Peter for advice? Pete was pretty good at drawing comprehensible explanations out of their scientists. Winston had long since figured out that nine out of ten times, Venkman knew exactly what they were talking about, no matter how esoteric their language became, but would cry ignorance until they put their theories in more ordinary terms. Keeping them grounded; Egon especially needed that reminder of reality at times.

Winston wondered what the physicist would be like, without someone like Peter to forcibly drag him out of his science, the same way he and Ray dragged Pete out of bed in the morning. Egon most likely would have figuratively pulled the book covers over his head and never left the lab except to eat and sleep. He never would have gotten involved in something as crazy as the Ghostbusters—though how they would manage without his genius was anybody's guess. He'd be a professor still, maybe at Columbia, or else he would have been tapped by the government to work on the latest version of the atomic bomb. Either way, Winston doubted that Egon would have made it here on his own, a distinguished graduate speaking to the most prestigious scientists in the city and beyond.

And while Peter might prefer talk shows and groupies, Egon looked more than content to answer the flurry of questions following his speech. Winston wouldn't be surprised if he picked up a few phone numbers as well, for all that he wouldn't inquire for them—from professors and fellow scientists, of course, but there were some remarkably good-looking ones here.

As they headed down to the stage at the end of the talk, Winston caught Peter glancing behind them, the frown back on his lips. He nudged the psychologist, "Hey, Pete, what's up?"

Venkman shook his head as if to dislodge a passing notion. "Nothing. Just thought I saw someone I knew." Raising his voice, he called down to their colleague, "Spengs, way to liven up the old physics hall! You haven't forgotten my advice, I noticed—I didn't doze off once."

"I am most gratified to hear it," Egon said dryly, but behind his glasses his blue eyes glowed slightly with the praise, accepting it as it was honestly intended, for all the joking tone.

Ray explained, "Peter went to one of the first classes Egon taught, and afterwards he told Egon that if he wanted a prayer of making tenure, he had to keep Peter awake for a whole lecture—and that was another eight o'clock class."

"It wasn't easy," Egon admitted.

"Yeah, it took you a couple of weeks to catch on," Peter agreed, leaning over the physicist's shoulder to take a peek at his notes. "But once you started to lose the unnecessary words over five syllables, and started to really explain what you were talking about instead of reciting it from everything you've read, you turned into a halfway decent speaker. Sure surprised me!"

Winston doubted that, actually. Peter usually could see someone's potential, and if he thought it worth the effort, he would do what it took to draw it out. Encouragement or bullying, teasing or challenges—he had a variety of tricks up his sleeve. Winston had been exposed to a few himself, but he suspected Ray and Egon had received the brunt of that treatment long before he had met any of them. Peter wouldn't have been content to watch Egon be a stolid, unengaging scientist when he could be a much greater individual, and he had seen to bringing that man to light. Even if it had meant getting up at eight a.m.

"It was a great speech," Ray cheerfully confirmed, then saw the clock. "Whoops, it's almost time for mine—sorry, Egon, I have to go get ready!"

"Good luck, Tex," said Peter, then, waving Egon's notebook in his direction, assured him, "You'll do fantastic—bet your notes are better than these. Spengs, how can you even read five-point font, with those glasses?"

Leaving Egon to fend off Peter's perusal of his papers on his own, Winston accompanied the occultist to the lecture hall. They had brought a trap and a proton pack, and Ray insisted on testing and re-testing them three times apiece.

"Got butterflies?" Winston asked sympathetically.

Ray shook his head. "No, I just want this to look good. Aunt Lois said she might come. She'll be at the ceremony tonight, too, and I want to show her what we do—"

"I think she knows already," Winston remarked, still wincing internally when he recalled the state in which they had left her living room those years back. The ghosts had done most of the damage, but all the same...

"But there's a lot of people who don't," Ray said earnestly. "Even those who have seen us in action, they don't understand how it works."

"Neither do I, half the time," Winston admitted. "I use 'em, but I don't know what the throwers or traps actually do."

He might have been slightly embarrassed to make such a confession to Egon, but Ray never took ignorance as anything but a reason to answer what questions he could. "I don't think Peter does, either. He always tuned out when we tried to explain what we were doing when we were first starting. That's why this is so great," he enthused. "We can explain to everybody, and once you know the basics, the details start to become clear. Like when Egon and I were first designing the containment unit, we knew it needed to be like the trap, only permanent, so we figured that the oscillating wave frequency would need to be lower in order to maintain the structural—"

"Okay," Winston held up his hands, "I'll believe it when I hear it. If you can make all that science make sense, you _deserve_ the award."

Fifteen minutes later, people started to trickle into the hall. Ray retreated behind the curtain and Winston climbed off the stage to rendezvous with Peter and Egon. They took their seats, but Peter kept twisting in his, glancing behind them at the audience filing in through the double doors.

Suddenly his eyes widened with recognition, and he elbowed Egon sharply in the ribs, hissing, "Hey, 'Barbie,' am I seeing things or did Ken just walk in?"

"What?" Winston asked, completely confused.

"What?" Egon repeated, in an entirely different tone.

Peter surreptitiously pointed to the back of the hall. "Second row from the top, on the left."

Glancing behind, Winston curiously scanned the faces of the indicated aisle, seeing no one he knew. But beside him Egon blinked and turned forward again abruptly, curtly acknowledging, "It may be."

"I think it is," Peter said. "And I think I saw him at my speech, too. Wonder what Kenny-boy is doing here?"

"He is a scientist, Peter."

"Is he? You haven't seen him in ten years—"

"Okay, hold it." Winston leaned over to address his friends. "Who's this Ken character?"

"Kenneth Ulster," Peter began. "_Doctor_ Kenneth M. Ulster, probably 'the third' or something—"

"Peter," Egon admonished him, not impatiently, more out of habit.

"Kenny was Egon's bestest bud, before I showed up and wrecked his life." Peter's eyes were snapping with undisguised amusement and no small satisfaction.

"Hardly," Egon sighed, though it was difficult to tell what he was denying. He clarified, "Dr. Ulster was a biochemist, with whom I collaborated on several extra-curricular experiments. He was one of the most brilliant scientists I have ever worked with."

"Also the most obnoxious," Peter put in. "If you didn't have an IQ of 160 or higher and made sure you talked like it all the time, Kenny considered you on par with his lab mice and treated you with the same courtesy. He liked Egon because he thought Egon was the only guy at Columbia, student or professor, who was as big a genius as he was."

"He was very intelligent," Egon allowed.

"You're smarter than he could dream of being," Peter retorted. "That was one of the things, though—Kenny knew it. The real reason he stayed so close to you was because he was hoping it would rub off, and because he thought with your brain he could accomplish more. Science, that was what Ulster cared about, that was _all_ he cared about. And of course Egon didn't know any better—you always were a genius, Spengs, but you didn't know jack until I bumped you off that physicist's track you were so intent on."

He grinned at Winston. "You should've seen them. They'd be working late, up all night sometimes—worse than me on the weekends. I'd want Egon for a study session—we were in a parapsychology course together—and I always knew where to find him, in the lab with Ulster, hunched over a chart or a test tube. Outside class they were always together there. I started calling them Ken and Barbie—because of the hair, of course," and he ruffled Egon's yellow locks.

With pretended affront, the physicist smoothed them back to their accustomed style. "Kenneth did not...appreciate the joke," he remarked.

"He couldn't stand me," Peter said more frankly. "He loathed my jokes, he detested my attitude, and he really couldn't take the fact that I was as smart as he was. Even if I didn't spend my life in a lab. And when he figured out that Egon had the excellent taste to prefer _my_ company over _his_, well...I'd say he hated my guts, but that's not putting it strongly enough. What'd he accuse me of—"

"'Corrupting' me, I recall, on one occasion," Egon murmured.

"Oh, yeah. And 'tempting,' another time. The way Kenny saw it, Egon was the original innocent, and I was the serpent himself, apple in hand." Peter smiled like a snake, fangs flashing. "And when Egon took a nibble—never could get him to bite all the way—Ulster kicked him out of Eden."

"It wasn't quite that dramatic," Egon told Winston, rolling his eyes at Peter. "I don't recall him placing a burning sword before the entrance of the lab."

"Yeah, and a laboratory's hardly paradise—but for Kenny, it might as well have been. He certainly guarded it whenever I came around. Egon kept working with him on a couple things second semester anyway; the 'divorce' wasn't until the next year."

"I remember," Egon acknowledged stiffly.

"So what happened?" Winston asked, curious in spite of himself. He took another peek at the audience behind him, wondering who was the man they now discussed.

"Ray happened." Peter's eyes gleamed green fire. "Much as Kenny loved me, he adored Ray even more. He couldn't imagine why Egon would willingly hang out with an underage, inexperienced, optimistic kid from the sticks who honestly believed in ghosts and weird things and thought they were 'cool.' Me and my parapsychology was bad enough—Ray's occult studies were worse."

Egon's expression was tight with remembered repressed anger. "He never even tried to talk with Ray; he didn't think it worth the time."

"He thought Egon put up with him only because he liked the hero worship." Peter, on the other hand, was not one to hide his ire, though there was satisfaction in his face as well. "And one evening Kenny decided to tell Egon this."

"While Ray was present," Egon added.

Winston nodded; that explained their emotion. Peter, in particular, for all his teasing, was as protective of his younger friend as a big brother.

"I missed that one," the psychologist said, "but I heard about it later that night; Ray told me everything. Spengs stopped working with Ulster after that, and we mutually decided that we wouldn't go near him and he wouldn't come anywhere near us. Kenny agreed to it, with only a little admonition on my part." He cocked his fist suggestively.

Egon's eyebrows shot up. "Peter, you didn't—"

Peter's grin shifted from a snake's to a shark's. "Come on, Egon, you didn't think he got that black eye falling over a lab table, did you?"

Winston smiled as Egon sighed. "I never—"

He was interrupted by the lights dimming. The babble of the crowd subsided to unintelligible murmurs as a woman came onstage and announced her pride in introducing the Ghostbuster, Dr. Raymond Stantz.

Egon leaned over to whisper to Peter, "You actually—? Really, Peter..."

The psychologist hissed back, "Yes, actually. You didn't stay up half the night with Ray, trying to convince him he could handle college when he was literally packing his bags to hitchhike back to the farm. Kenny-boy's lucky he's not eating intravenously. I restrained myself. But that was a while ago—shush now, listen to Ray. Maybe you'll learn something. Always thought he'd make a great prof."

Winston soon seconded this. Ray entered cautiously, swallowing as he approached the podium, and his voice almost cracked during his greeting as he alternated staring out at the audience and glancing furtively at his prepared talk. But by the time he was a paragraph in, he had abandoned his notes and spoke with all his usual excited energy. Ray was always like that; he'd get so caught up in a topic that he'd tell you everything about it whether you wanted to hear it or not, but he was so interested in whatever he talked about that he couldn't help but interest you as well. He had a better sense than Egon of how ordinary, non-scientist people thought and spoke, and his explanations usually were more down-to-earth.

His examples didn't hurt any, either. Most of the audience had probably seen their equipment before, either in person or on TV, but they still oohed and aahed, much impressed by the low-energy particle stream from the proton pack crackling over their heads, squinting in fascination at the trap's light. Ray had been disappointed that Slimer had refused to participate in the demonstration, but he didn't need the little ghost's assistance to put on a good show. And by the time it was over, Winston halfway grasped what a proton stream was, at least, as well as how it helped contain and control ectoplasmic energy. Not bad for an hour and a half.

Ray blushed at his audience's deafening applause, answered questions spiritedly and again showed his prowess with a proton pack. His cheeks were pink and his eyes were sparkling when he descended the stage and made his way through the crowd to his friends. "Did you see that? I think they liked it! Do you think they learned anything? Did it make sense? Did I talk too fast?"

"You did great, Tex," Peter assured him, offering a high-five which Ray enthusiastically returned, still babbling a blue streak.

Winston whispered in Egon's ear, low enough not to disturb his coworker's excitement, "The speech was great, now how do we turn him off?"

Egon smiled and murmured back, "Peter and I never found the switch."

Venkman had developed other ways to deal with that exuberance. Speaking over his chattering friend while making no effort to silence him, he announced, "We should go. The dinner's in fifteen, and I'm _hungry_!"

"Now, there's a shocker," Winston said.

"Truly a surprise," Egon solemnly agreed, blue eyes dancing behind his glasses.

"Let's go, then!" Ray interrupted himself to suggest brightly, and, after collecting their equipment, they headed out of the hall. Winston caught Peter looking thoughtfully at the faces of the people they passed, but if he saw the Ken guy they had been discussing before, he didn't react or comment to Egon. Just as well; it didn't sound like Ray would enjoy running into him, and with Ray flying so high now, Winston didn't want to see anything bring him down. Today had, against his expectations, been a great day, and it would be a shame if some irritating blast from his friends' past messed up the grand finale.

 

* * *

Remembering Columbia's dubious cafeterias, Peter had been vaguely suspicious of the dinner. But the university had had the intelligence, or perhaps someone on the board had the taste buds, to go to caterers rather than the dining service, and the food was _delicious_. Lasagna, if properly prepared, got him every time. He went back for a second serving and was debating whether it would be rude if he excused himself for a third when Ray slid a plateful in front of him. The occultist grinned at his delighted expression,

"Just getting seconds for myself, and I saw that look in your eye—Slimer has it whenever we're eating..."

Peter suppressed the automatic urge to stick his tongue out at his friend. "I'll get you for that later, Stantz. But thanks," and he dug in with gusto. Discussion was at a standstill for the moment because one of the deans was addressing the room, mumbling through his prepared speech and looking up in the breaks between paragraphs. Peter couldn't quite remember his name; he didn't think the man had been around when they had gone to school. That was getting to be some time ago; strange how young the students looked now. They must be admitting them younger every year; at this rate they'd soon be tapping junior high schoolers.

Peter grinned at the thought. Better that than him aging. One of the drawbacks of being a professor, having to teach perpetual youth while growing older yourself. Not that he was really that much older, of course, and not that he had experienced it when he had been teaching, some time ago, now. He never regretted leaving the world of scholarship for the excitement of ghostbusting. But today had at least reminded him of why he had stayed at the university as long as he had.

It also reminded him why he had so willingly departed. After the dinner, when the people were milling in small clusters passing time before being seated for the awards ceremony, Peter glanced to the doorway and spotted him. Dr. Ulster, so it seemed.

Looking back, he saw Ray in the center of a knot of engineers, happily delving into the more detailed schematics of their ghost traps. Peter hoped that Ray remembered to tell them that their equipment was all patented, but he couldn't help but smile fondly all the same. The attention was good for Ray, and the respect the students were paying to his knowledge. Egon might need to be taken down a peg now and again, but Ray, for all his confidence now, would do better for the bolstering.

Wouldn't do much good if he and Ulster noticed one another. Peter grabbed Winston's arm. "Hey, Zed, do me a favor and distract Ray."

Winston's eyebrows went up. "I think he's already distracted," gesturing at the chattering people surrounding their friend.

Peter nodded. "I know, but if he looks like he might be heading over here, see that he doesn't, okay? Just for a couple minutes."

"Pete, what's this—"

"Just an interception mission, solve a problem before it starts. Thanks, Winston." He clapped his teammate on the shoulder and began maneuvering through the crowd toward the exit.

Before he reached the doors, he sensed more than saw someone flank him, knew who it was without looking. "Egon—"

"I've seen him, too, Peter," the physicist murmured back. "I'd prefer to accompany you on this, given your previous track record."

Their target was conversing with a pair of grad students, trading strings of polysyllabic chemical terms. As they approached, he nodded to the two in polite dismissal, looked over and met their eyes. Kenneth Ulster, without a doubt. He hadn't changed much in the intervening years, hair a little thinner, middle a little thicker. The faint supercilious smile was still the same, and his even baritone.

"Dr. Spengler! I was wondering if I was going to have to seek you out. Good to see you again!"

"Dr. Ulster," Egon greeted him with a formal nod. At the other scientist's welcoming tone, he exchanged a glance with Peter.

Peter seconded his unease. Wasn't normal, that degree of friendliness from Ulster. It felt akin to a bulldog making nice with a love bite. "Hi, Kenny."

Ulster glanced over as if noticing him for the first time. "Hello, Dr. Venkman. Good to see you, too." Cooler, but nowhere near hostile.

For some reason that irked him further. "Yeah. Hey, glad they reset your nose okay—you can barely see the break."

Egon sighed almost inaudibly; Peter didn't look at him, knowing he'd only be confronted with a disapproving glare. He kept focused on Ulster. The scientist frowned momentarily, then shook his head as if casting aside the memory. "That was a long time ago, Dr. Venkman; I trust we've all long healed from whatever injuries we may have caused one another. I see that Dr. Stantz did get his degree—"

"Yeah, a shame you missed it, I'm sure it broke your heart," Peter replied pleasantly. "Where were you, holding a protest that your alma mater was giving an occultist a doctorate—"

This time Egon didn't keep his disapproval inaudible. "Peter—"

"No, I should apologize," Ulster said. "I was wrong, I'm willing to admit that now. There's more to the supernatural than I believed, than I knew. Your work now—I attended all your speeches today. Fascinating."

"Thank you," Egon said gravely.

"Thanks," Peter muttered. He knew he shouldn't be so openly belligerent, not when Ulster was taking it so well. Stirring up trouble—that was what he had come over to prevent, only he would be the aggressor if anything happened. Ulster hadn't said so much as one negative word.

Maybe he had changed. Time could do that to people. Perhaps all he had needed was to outgrow being a bastard. Peter hadn't exactly been Mr. Perfect himself way back when; he should accept that others could similarly improve.

He didn't have to like it, though. And Ulster's voice still rankled, somehow.

"Congratulations on the award; you deserve the recognition," he was saying. "But I'm actually here for more than that."

"Yes?" Egon prompted, when he trailed off.

Peter recognized that pause. He knew what was coming, and resisted the temptation to mouth the words along with Ulster as he said, "I need your help." He expanded, "I have... I've found something I think you should look at. From what you said in your speech today, Dr. Spengler, and from what I've seen of it, I think I may have inadvertently picked up a ghost."

"What?" Egon frowned.

Peter nodded, unsurprised. That explained his deferential attitude. People tended to reform in a hurry when confronted by the inexplicable; if anything, Ulster with his science would be even worse, had he encountered proof of something beyond his understanding. "So what happened? Make it fast, we've got awards to receive."

"It happened about a week ago," Ulster told them, "and I would have called you immediately, but, well—I was afraid if you remembered me, you wouldn't be forthcoming. So I tried take care of the problem myself, and succeeded in capturing...something. It's in my car now—"

"You captured a ghost?" Egon asked.

"Perhaps. I'm not sure," Ulster confessed. "I have a metal box with something inside it; when I tried to remove it, in a controlled setting, I only got a handful of transparent, sticky..."

"Ectoplasm," Egon supplied. "Very likely a specter, then, though if it were contained by metal, then it can't be very strong. Class two, most likely—"

"Even if it's not strong," Ulster said, "I'd like to be rid of it. Is there any chance you could take it off my hands?"

"You brought the box with you?" When the other scientist nodded eagerly, Egon considered, "I could examine it at least. We probably could get it into the containment unit without trouble. We have another hour before the ceremony, I could take care of it now. Peter—"

"Nuh-uh, I'm coming with you on this one," Peter informed him, making an entrance into the conversation. "Doesn't sound like a big bust, but if I let you go off, you're liable to talk science right through the awards." Besides, the thought of Egon accompanying Ulster anywhere alone made him uneasy.

Jealousy, Venkman? Come on, you know darn well that Egon would never leave the Ghostbusters, no matter how tempting an offer Ulster might make. Though that might be it, Peter thought. He would bet even money that Ulster had ulterior motives. Maybe he was trying to lure his lost friend back to the scientific fold. Probably was working for some high-tech lab and had decided he could use Spengler's genius.

He asked Egon about it, when they headed alone to Ecto-1 to pick up the necessary equipment. "Spengs, have any idea what he's been doing all this time?"

Egon shook his head. "We should inquire," he replied as he collected his PKE meter. Peter hid his smile at the absent-minded way he adjusted its settings; the physicist couldn't hold one of the devices without fooling with it, like a kid with a favorite toy. "To my knowledge he hasn't published anything recently. When we got the new science database last month, I ran a search of his name, and his last paper was in a minor biochemistry journal eight years ago."

"You looked up his name?"

"He was a former colleague, Peter. I often research old acquaintances."

"Checking on the competition, eh? Bet none of them are coming close to Spengler and Stantz." Peter grinned with proprietary pride. "What with that piece in _Science_ last year, and don't try to deny you've got _The Journal of Physics_ knocking on the door, I've noticed those return addresses. You guys are taking the science world by storm. All that and 'busting, too—no wonder Ulster's jealous. Here." He tossed a balled-up jumpsuit at his friend.

Egon caught it automatically. "He said nothing of jealousy. He sounded pleased that we've been successful." Shaking out the jumpsuit, "I don't think we need the uniforms; this shouldn't take more than a few minutes."

"That's more than enough time for a ghost to slime your nice suit. And you won't have time to change. We'd look pretty goofy dripping on our certificates." Peter had already pulled his own over his clothes, zipped it up as he remarked, "Just because he didn't say he was green with envy didn't mean it wasn't in his eyes. Something was, anyway. Come on, Spengs, even you couldn't have missed the look he was giving me."

"I did, and thought it was remarkably tame, considering your past history," Egon said pointedly. "And he was open about needing our help."

"Yeah. Have to love the way a ghost can freak even creeps. And we're obliged to help. Wonder how much we can charge for this?" He had been calculating it already, though it really depended on the ghost. "We should get the usual five hundred for the investigation, and then when we see what kind of gooper it is—"

"Peter," Egon admonished, "he is an old acquaintance, and this shouldn't even take an hour of our time, when we're officially off-duty as it is—"

"Egon, has anyone ever told you you have no sense of priorities? Off-duty means overtime, at least, plus we're going in with just the two of us, so factor in hazard pay—"

"Peter."

"Don't worry." Peter smirked. "I won't give him the bill tonight. We'll let Janine draw it up. I'm sure there's a couple more expenses I'm forgetting." He grabbed the proton pack, slung it over his shoulders and buckled the belt around his waist. "Only one pack available, there's got to be a way to account for that. Got the trap?"

Egon nodded. "We shouldn't even need the pack," he commented, "if the ghost is already secured."

"Better safe than sorry." This one was Ray's, from his demonstration; Peter regretted not having brought another. Experience had taught him long ago not to go into any situation defenseless. This might be only a class two gooper, but it could just as conceivably a demon or a goblin or God knew what else. It wasn't like Ulster knew anything about spooks. Maybe he'd gotten lucky; or maybe it was only pretending to be captured. Peter wasn't about to risk their lives on an inexperienced scientist's say-so. Especially not when it was Kenneth Ulster's.

If it looked like it might be worse than they had been led to believe, they'd bring in the other guys. But Peter didn't want Ray involved if there was a choice. Kenny might be all nice and friendly now, but he had made his feelings about the occultist damn clear and Peter knew Ray had yet to forget it. He didn't need the reminder, not tonight, particularly. It was going to be great, going up on that stage with him and Egon, shaking the president's hand, hearing the applause. How many professors in the audience had derided him and his buddies, told them they were crazy, that they'd never make anything of themselves? Okay, so revenge might be petty, but he couldn't wait for this.

"Come on, we don't want to be late!"

 

* * *

Ulster met them at the exit of the parking lot. Night had fallen and the streetlights cast pools of light on the pavement, black and gray shadows fractured by the smooth surfaces of the cars. Of course he had to have parked on the other end of the campus, explaining that he hadn't wished his ghost to be near enough to endanger anyone. They walked down a side street paralleling the quad, passing a few students heading either toward the ceremony, the library, or most likely the fraternities. Bound to be some rocking parties on a Friday night. Peter momentarily wondered if he could get into any of them; he might not be a student, but if they recognized him, maybe they'd let him drop in. After the ceremony, maybe. Winston might appreciate a taste of the other side of college life, too, since he'd been so patient with the lectures and conversations of the day.

If he pitched it right, he could drag Ray and even Egon along. Peter eyed the physicist appraisingly. The Ghostbusters, gate-crashing a frat party. That would go over well in several houses he knew, and even better if it were all of them. They were famous, after all. Ray would be easy to convince, so he'd only need to talk Egon into it.

He would have tried now, but Ulster's silent presence stalking alongside them stopped him. Egon had drawn himself up ramrod-straight, not even glancing at the PKE meter in hand, let alone fiddling with it. Unconsciously performing, falling into that stiffness that had characterized his interactions with Ulster even before Peter had rolled into town.

Had Egon ever noticed, before Peter showed up, how little he cared for the other scientist? They had worked great together, sure, and Ulster had that sneaking admiration for the physicist's genius, but it wasn't mutual. Egon had better taste than that, but he had been stuck into thinking that college was strictly for education, just as life was for science. Interpersonal interaction hadn't been his strong point. It might have never occurred to Spengs that the guy he hung around and studied with had all the winning personality of a meat grinder. Peter shuddered to think of what might have happened to Egon had he not come along. Locked away in a lab somewhere, miserable, and he wouldn't even know why. Yup, he definitely owed Dr. Venkman for that one.

And the therapy wasn't over yet, not if he still went all formal in front of Ulster. It would be Peter's duty to snap him out of this mood afterward, and the quickest way to manage that would be to drag him to the noisiest party on campus, kicking and screaming if necessary.

The sacrifices one makes for one's friends...

He smirked, caught Ulster's glance and schooled his features into a professional mask of confidence. On the job here—damn, Kenny could do it to him, too. Couldn't take Ulster to the party; he'd suck the life out in a minute flat. Peter knew there was a reason he had preferred Egon to Kenneth from day one, even if none of his frat friends had been able to tell the two scientists apart. Egon at his most stolid couldn't achieve the level of anti-fun that Ulster effortlessly exuded.

Ulster's car was at the far corner of one of the overflow lots, empty this night. His black Volvo was alone under the halo of a streetlight, glittering darkly in the yellowish glow. The scientist hit a button on his key chain as they neared; the car chimed softly as its locks popped up.

Peter glanced at his watch. Half an hour left, and they still had to walk back. "Come on, we're going to be late. Where's the ghost?"

"In the car," Ulster said, and pointed for good measure. "The box is on the front seat. Here." He handed Egon a small silver key.

Peter snatched it peremptorily. "What's the meter say, Eg—Dr. Spengler?" Couldn't hurt to make this official as possible; it would help their case when they handed him the bill.

Egon shook his head. "No readings, Dr. Venkman." Only the faintest twinkle deep in his eyes spoke of his awareness of the game.

"I saw it, I know it's in there," Ulster insisted, an edge of agitation creeping into his phlegmatic tone.

"Sure, we believe you," Peter soothed. "The meter doesn't always catch small ones."

"The metal might be interfering," Egon added. They approached the car, Peter unslinging the thrower from his pack as he powered it up. No telling what might pop out at them—nothing, according to the meter. But the meter wasn't always accurate...and the prickling sensation on the back of his neck emphasized that point. Could be nerves, but he had experience with his instincts as well, and they were right far more than wrong. Ulster hung back, fidgeting, nothing obtrusive, but Peter saw him shift his weight from foot to foot. This ghost really did have him spooked. Pity they couldn't in all fairness let it continue its haunting; the guy was better for the excitement.

Peter opened the car door and examined the box on the passenger seat. Nothing fancy, just a locked storage container the size of a shoebox. Stepping out of the way, he let Egon pass the meter over it.

The physicist shook his head. Still no readings. The metal could obscure the readings, or there might be nothing in it—easy enough to find out. Holding the thrower one-handed, Peter inserted the key in the lock and turned.

The box wasn't empty. As soon as he raised the lid, he heard a faint hiss. Stepping back, he set his stance, but nothing emerged from the vehicle, neither a flimsy shade nor a demon.

"I'm not picking up anything," Egon reported with a puzzled frown.

With a frown of his own, Peter cautiously bent over to peer into the box. His vision blurred as he did, and even before he saw the canister nestled in the newspaper, he knew. Didn't see or smell anything, but when he pushed back, the night swirled around him dizzyingly, the streetlight dividing and multiplying into a field of twinkling stars.

He looked past Egon, who was also beginning to stagger, and through the flashes he saw Ulster, one hand over his mouth. Holding something—a mask. The son of a bitch had a gas mask.

"Egon, get outa here!" Peter shouted, as loudly as he could given that his throat was closing around his tongue, and he lunged for Ulster.

Didn't make it. Either he had miscalculated or the scientist had stepped back, and that was one step further than his own legs could manage. He fell heavily, but didn't feel it, the thrower slipping from his nerveless fingers before he hit the ground. Couldn't see through the shadows reaching over him, couldn't even turn his head, but maybe Egon had escaped; he hadn't gotten such a strong whiff of the gas, whatever it was. He had to have made it. Someone needed to tell the others Peter was going to be late for the ceremony.

Great day, lousy night, opposite of his college experience. Looked like he wouldn't be crashing any parties, either. _You better have gotten away, Spengs, 'cause I've got a hunch this isn't going to be any fun_, and with that reassuring thought he spun down into darkness.

 

* * *

It was nearly time to go on and Egon and Peter had yet to show. Leaning against the black wall of the auditorium's backstage, Winston glanced at his watch for the third time that minute. Which was about six times less than Ray had checked his own in the same amount of time. His younger friend was rocking from the balls of his feet to his heels, fidgeting with his tie as they waited.

Winston clasped his shoulder briefly, to stop the nervous motion as much as to get his attention. "Hey, Ray, it'll be okay. You know Pete, always wanting to make an entrance."

"Yeah, but Egon..." He looked hopefully to the door as it opened, but it was their presenter, a dean in a formal evening gown.

"Where are they?" she snapped impatiently. "You're all supposed to be seated now."

"They're not in the audience," reported a young man in a dark suit, one of several drafted into the search. "The president wants to know what the delay is."

The dean's lips compressed into a narrow mauve line. "We're going to have to begin, and hope they show up in time for the presentation. This better not be a prank. I wasn't here when Venkman was a professor, but I've heard the stories—"

"If it's a stunt, then we weren't let in on it," Winston told her. And Peter would have told them at least, unless he had something exceptional planned—he hadn't. He had been too determined to make a good impression, for his teammates' sake as much as his own. "Why don't you go on, and we'll all walk out together when they get here. It'll look planned."

Muttering curses at tardy awardees, the dean agreed, her heels clicking like a metronome as she marched onstage to the podium. With a final glare back in their direction, she launched into her address. "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we're here to..."

"Peter wouldn't miss this," whispered Ray.

"I know," Winston agreed. Egon he could see being distracted by conversation and entirely forgetting another engagement. But Peter, while selectively amnesiac and on occasion 'fashionably late,' was too aware of this honor to play such games here. He liked the recognition, the reputation, acknowledgment of what they did for people. And he would've dragged Egon with him. They should be here.

"Where were they last?" Ray asked worriedly. "I haven't seen them since the dinner, I was so busy talking..."

Winston hesitated. At the reception, after Peter had told him to distract Ray, Winston had spotted his two teammates with another man, by the door. He had turned to Ray for a few minutes, and when he looked back the three were gone. He didn't recall seeing Peter and Egon again, but he hadn't specifically looked, until they reconvened here and came up two short.

Combining what Peter had asked of him and what they had talked about earlier, Winston had come to a conclusion about the identity of the tall brunet man with them. But Peter had been adamant about not letting word of the scientist's presence slip to Ray, and he was wary of breaking that promise now. Peter and Egon surely wouldn't find their old acquaintance's company so engrossing as to miss the ceremony.

And if it were something less innocuous than that... Winston shook his head, tried to force out his darker thoughts. Calm down, Zeddemore, you read too many mysteries. So the scientist and Peter might have been antagonistic when they went to school together; that was years ago, a long time to nurse a grudge. And what could he do to both Egon and Peter, in half an hour? It would be risky, when so many people might have seen them.

Though when would he have had the opportunity, after the ceremony, when they were planning to head straight home?

Pretty unlikely. And he thought Ray had the overactive imagination? But ten minutes later, they had yet to have any sign of them, and the cold lump in his stomach became too hard to ignore. He could have it out with Peter later.

"Uh, Ray? Do you remember—Pete and Egon mentioned this guy from your college days, a scientist, Kenneth something. Ken Usher?"

"Ulster?" Ray swallowed. "Kenneth Ulster?"

Winston nodded. "Yeah, that's it. They thought they saw him at your speech, and they might have been talking to him at the reception."

"But they wouldn't— I mean, Peter hated him!" Ray protested. "And he didn't like Peter. Or me..." The uncertainty in his voice was reflected in his wide hazel eyes. "I didn't see him, but..."

He jerked to his feet. "We gotta find them, Winston. They should be here." Tapping the shoulder of one of men backstage, Ray asked of him, "Tell the dean that we're not going to be here, okay? We can't get the awards now."

The young man blinked at him. "Hey, you can't—"

"Something's come up," Winston said. "Sorry, m'man, but this is important."

"But—" He looked from one Ghostbuster to the other, saw the same resolve in both gazes and gulped audibly. "Okay..." With a deep breath, he walked onstage and made for the dean, just as the audience broke into applause.

Probably announcing them. Ray was already slipping out the door; Winston followed before he could see the dean's reaction. He didn't envy the man reporting to her. In front of the other people she'd probably keep her cool, but once behind the curtain...

This wouldn't help his friends' reputations at Columbia, that was certain. Rescheduling big events never went over well, especially not changes at the very last minute. And after all the effort they had put into this...it would be the last time they granted any sort of honors on the Ghostbusters, unless Peter and Egon had an excellent excuse.

Winston hoped they didn't. He hoped that when he and Ray walked outside, their teammates would be rushing up, out of breath, Peter complaining loudly about whatever delay Egon or Ulster had caused. They'd be given hell for it, and he and Ray would gladly help, and tomorrow they'd go back to their job like this had never happened and would soon forget all about it. That was how he wanted it to go—though he knew it wouldn't.

On the way to Ecto-1, a black and white campus security vehicle pulled up beside them, the driver sticking his head out the window to ask, "Hey, you're the Ghostbusters?"

Winston and Ray both nodded.

"Thought I recognized you," the man said. "Heard you were on campus. Could you come with me? I just got a report you should take a look at."

Nonverbally coming to a quick decision, the two Ghostbusters climbed into the vehicle. The man glanced them over before he pulled into the street. "You're Zeddemore and Stantz, right? I'm a big fan, always make sure to catch when you're in the news. Didn't expect I'd actually see you, being on duty tonight and all, but then this came up. It's lucky I found you—where's the other two?"

"We're looking for them," Ray explained, scanning the sidewalks along the street for people.

If Winston had been looking out the window like Ray, instead of at their driver as he was, he would have missed the reaction. The security man's, "Oh," was noncommittal, but his suddenly hesitant expression made Winston's stomach knot.

They turned into a parking lot, joining a second security vehicle and two more men gathered under a streetlight. "A student called this in a few minutes ago," their escort told them. "She didn't see anyone around, and she would have taken it to lost and found, but she wasn't sure she should touch it—"

Winston understood her reasoning. Between the flashing red light and the low, steady hum, the object didn't look entirely safe. But it was familiar, to him at least, and to Ray, who ran forward when he spotted the proton pack and crouched to switch it off. When it powered down, the campus security men surrounding it breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"It wouldn't have been a problem," Winston assured them. "It's not that dangerous—"

"I thought so," their driver said eagerly. "I thought I recognized it. It's one of your weapons, right? What's it doing here, though? How'd you lose it? I was thinking maybe somebody tried to steal it, and then it came on and they got scared. It doesn't seem safe, the student thought it was a bomb—"

Ray wasn't listening to a word the man said, automatically checking the pack for damage before he slung it over his shoulder and stood. "Winston." His voice was quiet and tight. Winston attended to him immediately as he went on, "It's my pack. The one I brought for the demonstration."

Winston nodded. That only made sense; it was the only one they had with them. But the security man could be right about the burglary. "Can you take us to our car?"

Ecto-1 was still there, and none of its locks had been jimmied; nor was there anything else missing at first glance. When Ray opened the storage lockers, they discovered Peter and Egon's spare jumpsuits were also gone. Not your average thief's haul, certainly. And not your average thief—whoever had taken the equipment had had keys. Whoever it was also knew how to correctly activate a proton pack.

It had to have been either Peter or Egon. But they wouldn't have left a pack in the lot like that.

Winston returned to the waiting security man, quietly inquired, "You didn't get any other reports tonight, did you? Of anything...suspicious, in the last hour, maybe? Nobody saw anything, around here or over in the other lot?"

The man shook his head. "No, it's been a quiet night, for a Friday. Do you think— Could something have happened to the other Ghostbusters?" Obviously, he didn't like the thought that it might have happened on his shift.

Winston wasn't too keen on that idea himself. "We don't know."

Ray joined them. "I just called the firehall on the carphone, but nobody answered. I know a couple places on campus that Egon or Peter or Ulster might have wanted to visit; we could check them out. Don't think we'll find anything but we should try..." He sounded calm, concerned but reasonable. Except Ray usually suggested plans he was convinced would work; he was the team's optimist, and for him to admit that he doubted they'd find anything, for him not to have any ideas that would be successful, was even more telling than the slight tremor in his voice.

It matched Winston's own foreboding. The uniforms gone, the pack abandoned in a dark lot, and he had last seen their friends with a man who might be an enemy... Peter would never have missed the ceremony, not if he'd had a choice. And Egon cared about these affairs more than he let on. They should have been there.

As Egon would say, this was bad. Very bad.

 

* * *

Peter awoke in a cage.

He opened his eyes and the first thing that swam into focus were vertical black bars, about a foot from his nose. It took an indeterminate period of time for him to process this, as he mentally backtracked in order to make sense of what he was seeing.

Ulster. The parking lot. The metal box and the gas canister hissing inside, and he had succumbed. Vague shadows after that, darkness, hands touching him, the heavy proton pack being forced off his shoulders, and he had fought for it. Then a hard grip on his arm, a sharp prick to the pinched skin, and everything faded. And now this, here...

The bars rose up out of his field of vision. Beyond them were dull white walls and a featureless gray floor, smooth tile, the same as he was lying on. He pressed his hands against it, forced himself up to a sitting position. It took less effort than he had expected, though his stomach twisted in protest and his head pounded accompaniment to the nausea. Hangover, unfair because he hadn't drunk anything. But at least he could get a better look at his surroundings: a cage, about eight feet square, and a barred roof the same distance overhead. A narrow pallet was spread in one corner and across from it a basic commode stood unconcealed. The cage was in turn in a larger room with a higher ceiling, illuminated by dim greenish florescents, no windows or lamps. There was a single door outlined in the otherwise featureless wall he faced.

Twisting on his knees, he saw through the bars another cage, a match to his, about four feet away. Another man lay in the center, sprawled awkwardly as if he had been flung inside. His face was turned away, but there was no mistaking the blue jumpsuit or the blond hair.

Weakness vanishing at that sight, Peter leapt forward, ignoring his roiling stomach. "Egon?" There was no response. He pressed against the bars, tried to blink his vision clear enough to see if he were moving at all, if he even were breathing. "Egon, wake up. Get up now. Come on, Egon." His pitch was rising with his growing panic, but he didn't try to reign it in. "Spengs, don't you dare do this to Dr. Venkman—"

Egon groaned. Peter released a long sigh of his own, and in spite of the situation, managed a grin. "That's it, Egon. Roll over and look at me. Let me see if you've still got your glasses."

"P—Peter?" That faltering, faint tone was scarcely recognizable. Slowly, the blond head lifted, turned to peer at him fuzzily.

His glasses, though present, had slipped down his nose. Peter couldn't push them up as he often did, his arms not long enough to reach across the narrow corridor separating their cages. He contented himself with saying, "Right here," and waving for good measure. "Fix your glasses, no point in having them if you aren't looking through them."

After a few confused blinks, Egon obeyed. His mind seemed to come into focus with his vision, and he struggled to sit up, repeating in a more regular voice, "Peter? Where are we?"

"Beats me." Peter shrugged. "Bet I know who does know. The bastard who set us up."

"Ulster," Egon murmured.

"He strung us along but good, huh? Playing up that scary ghost—it was a trap from the start. Premeditated abduction—they're gonna throw the book at him. They just better. I can't believe I didn't see through it." He smacked his open palm against the floor. "Didn't think he remembered me well enough to try something that elaborate."

"He has captured me as well," Egon pointed out mildly.

"Yeah," Peter agreed with no small regret. "I'd hoped you'd got away. What happened, what's the last thing you remember?"

Egon closed his eyes, leaning against the metal bars. "I noticed I was becoming faint just as you checked the box again, and when you retreated, I saw you were losing your balance. It wasn't until you told me to run that I saw Ulster's gas mask and realized what was happening—I should have been quicker to see, but I wasn't expecting anything."

"Me, neither. So by the time you realized it, you were already down."

"More or less," Egon deferred. "I heard you tell me to go, but I didn't know what had happened to you, and—"

Peter bumped his head against the bars with a groan. "Egon, you better not be saying you stayed behind to check my pulse. Do you know how dumb that was? You couldn't have done a hell of a lot of good unless you had a mask, too—"

"I had breathed in a fair amount of gas," the physicist asserted stiffly. "I wasn't thinking clearly, and it was unlikely I could have made it very far—"

"Far enough," Peter shot back. "Ulster probably wouldn't have gone after you. He wanted me. I'm the corrupter, remember. He never had anything against you."

"Exactly," Egon replied. "Last we knew, he bore a very strong grudge against you, Peter. I feared that if he got you..."

"So instead you let him snag both of us."

"Ulster grabbed me right after you fell. When I protested, before I could examine you," Egon explained, "he injected me. I saw the hypodermic, but I don't know what was in it. A clear solution. I soon lost consciousness. That's all I know, before I awoke now."

"I think he shot me up, too." Peter rubbed his arm, pushed up the sleeve of his jumpsuit to examine the spot. Slightly sore and there was a small red mark. "Some kind of anesthetic. There's lots and I don't remember most of them. You feeling all right?"

Egon nodded. "Only a little queasy, and my head—"

"That subsides. Tell me if it doesn't, but I'm betting we got the same thing, and I'm also assuming he wasn't trying to hurt us or we wouldn't be waking up." That thought sent a shiver down his back. If the gas had been lethal, and Egon had stayed— But it hadn't been. Ulster hadn't wanted to kill them. "Kenny's a biochemist; he knows his drugs. And wherever he's working now, he apparently has access to 'em. So we know how, the question now is—"

"Why," Egon agreed.

"Revenge is the obvious reason," Peter mused, "though why he'd take you— He didn't have anything against you, not compared to me and Ray." Ray... If Ulster had decided he wanted vengeance on all three of them...

"Revenge is illogical," Egon stated softly. "It's unscientific. He may have been angry with you, but to carry it on for this long..?"

It wouldn't be the first time he had inspired a near blood-feud; but Egon was right. Ulster was far too single-mindedly focused on his science, his work and his experiments, to bother with emotional affairs like this. Or at least he had been; who knew how a decade could change a man? And what had he been doing in the interim? Not publishing. Had he abandoned his science, or failed at it, and blamed Egon for his failure?

Face it, they were both here. They were both in a lot of hot water. Now the number one priority should be getting out; they'd figure out what Kenny was up to after that was accomplished. He closed his fingers around the bars and tried to shake them; the steel didn't budge, unsurprisingly.

"He took off my pack, while we were still in the lot, I think." Maybe Ulster had guessed they could track its energy, or maybe he just realized it was dangerous. "He must have emptied my pockets, too. Have anything to pick a lock?"

Egon patted his pants, shook his head. "They must have taken my PKE meter as well; I was still holding onto it when I lost consciousness. Ulster may have been interested in its functioning."

"He could've asked to see it politely," Peter muttered, then noticed another missing element. "Egon, they get your patch?" He glanced through the bars at his friend's shoulder and confirmed it. The Ghostbusters' symbol, the anti-ghost badge, had been cut from their uniforms.

"They want to keep our identities secret?" Egon hazarded.

Peter snorted, trying to inject a note of smug confidence into his tone. "Like that'll do it—we're on TV. We're famous. People will recognize our faces." If there was indeed anyone around to identify them. Someone would come—why would Ulster bother locking them away just to let them starve? There were faster and easier ways to take care of old rivals. "Winston and Ray must be looking for us by now. Ray can reconfigure another meter, track our biorhythms. They'll be in here blasting us free before we know it."

On that proclamation, the door behind them opened and someone entered the room. Not their friends; a single man. Kenneth Ulster. He was wearing the same dark suit and his face was as collected and inexpressive as it had been at the reception. Walking between the two cages, he regarded them each in turn.

Egon struggled to his feet, pulling himself up by the bars and gripping them to keep his balance. He met the other scientist's gaze grimly, but said nothing.

Peter stayed down, not seeing the point otherwise. Standing would only increase the fading nausea, judging from Egon's greenish hue. He smiled up at their abductor. "Hi, Kenny. Love the decor. Early Penitentiary? I like Gothic dungeons myself, and Egon goes more for the Baroque look, don't you, Spengs?"

"I find some Art Deco appealing as well."

"I prefer function, not style," Ulster said calmly. "Appearance doesn't affect purpose."

"Purpose, hmm?" Peter tapped the bars in front of him thoughtfully. "You planning on selling us to the Bronx Zoo? I know I'm a party animal, but I don't think that's an endangered species, so they won't pay much."

"Trust me, I have no plan to ransom you," replied Ulster. Peter met his cold gaze without blinking, but it was an effort. Something in those gray eyes...

He kept his tone light. "You sure? You could get good money for us." Feeling tentatively for his motives. Not revenge, or at least not only vengeance. And not for a cash prize. But why else do you abduct people..?.

Egon had the courage to voice what he would not. "You can't buy human test subjects, Peter."

Ulster turned toward his cage with a slight smile. "I knew you would understand, Spengler."

"It does fit the accommodations," Egon remarked.

"Yeah," Peter agreed. "Bet all your lab rats get places as nice as this."

"Or even nicer," responded Egon, "if somewhat less roomy."

"I just hope the food's better here. Those pellets give me indigestion."

"And you know this how—?"

"The experiment begins today," said Ulster, as if they hadn't spoken.

"Oh, goodie," Peter muttered, leaning back against his braced arms and trying his damnedest to look and sound casual. "Does that mean we'll get back in time to pick up  
our awards, if the offices are open Saturdays? We didn't get a chance to tell them what came up." Though they must have figured it out—what day was it, anyway? How long had they been out?

Long enough, he knew. By now Ray and Winston would have realized something was wrong. They'd be searching with every available resource. They might not know what had happened, but they were smart. Ray could use a meter to track them if they were in range, and Winston knew Ulster had been around. They'd put two and two together and come looking.

He and Egon only had to manage that long. And the more he talked, the longer he might postpone Ulster's plans. "You know, this wasn't a great way to get into the university's good graces. Bureaucracies hate having their schedules disrupted. When they find out it was your fault they couldn't reward their distinguished graduates—well, I wouldn't want to be the one facing Dean—"

"The first test requires a single subject," Ulster told them, ignoring Peter.

Egon glared down at his old acquaintance, arms crossed over his chest. "This is illegal," he reminded the other scientist, in the tone one would use to chastise disobedient children. "The only human subjects one may use in scientific research are volunteers. We do not volunteer."

"Yeah," Peter chimed in. "It will invalidate your study. There's no way you're getting this one by the Board of Ethics, no matter how many jacuzzis you buy them."

"You're assuming I care if my research is accepted."

"Well, I'm guessing you're not doing it for our health." He didn't like how easily Ulster was maintaining his calm. He especially didn't like the way the scientist looked back and forth between him and Egon, not only listening, but evaluating. A single subject required... "Don't tell me you've finally got a hobby. There's lots of entertainment psychologically healthier than S&amp;M, you know. I could show you some—"

"This isn't entertainment. Nor is it revenge, as you were speculating." Ulster turned to Egon, then back to Peter. "Incidentally, Dr. Venkman, I would have pursued Dr. Spengler had he tried to run. Of course I didn't want witnesses, but more importantly I needed two subjects. You were convenient."

Two subjects. They had that comfort, at least. Ray and Winston had been left out of this.

"Always glad to be of service," Peter replied with heavy sarcasm. "So you were listening to us; that is a camera, then?" He had spotted the glitter of a round dark lens in the far ceiling corner. "Voyeurism, too. Kenny boy, I'm willing to give you half rates on therapy if your insurance doesn't cover it. You need it, bad."

"Peter," Egon said, his admonishing tone sharper than usual. As if he had only just realized what the psychologist was attempting.

Ulster seemed unaffected, however. Insults didn't often penetrate that thick skull. The scientist glanced at his caged fellow. "Hasn't changed much, has he, Spengler?"

"No," Egon sighed, meeting Peter's eyes through the space and bars separating them. He plead silently, not even needing to mouth the words when his expression was so eloquent: _Don't antagonize him; don't try to spark his temper._

_Don't draw his attention._ Sorry, Egon. No can do, not with the way he's looking at you. "Guess it's endemic, then, because you're the same old bastard I remember, too, Kenny. So what are you experimenting with here? Since we know what you're experimenting on—or do you usually keep space aliens in these cages, and we're just a special exception?"

"Drug therapy," Ulster said.

It took Peter a couple of seconds to realize the scientist had given a straight answer to his question. He had been prepared for more of a run-around, Ulster enjoying the power he had over them; these matter-of-fact responses were even more disturbing. And the explanation itself—

"Drugs, huh? The kind at CVS, the kind in hospitals, or the kind you pick up on the street at two hundred dollars a baggie?"

"None of the above," Egon said flatly. "Am I correct, Dr. Ulster?"

"It's good to know that over-exposure to Dr. Venkman hasn't dulled your wits too much, Spengler," Ulster replied.

"At least I'm still a scientist, rather than an entrepreneur," the physicist shot back.

Peter saw Ulster's eyes flash as he slowly turned again to Egon. His voice was colder than before. "I am always a scientist."

"Selling your services out to the highest bidder," Egon replied, his bass just as icy. "You didn't build these cages for us; you've done this before. Who do you work for, a mega-corporation? The government—of what country?"

"The source of my funding doesn't matter," said Ulster. "The work does. We'll proceed with the experiment now." He didn't issue a command, but somebody must have been monitoring their conversation because the door opened again. A broad-shouldered man all in black, from his boots to his buzz cut, marched in. He had a holstered gun on his belt and Peter guessed he was a guard; he didn't look like a typical lab assistant, at any rate. No white coat or glasses. In his hands, he bore a square silver tray with a bottle of spring water.

Peter caught Egon's eye. "What do you know, room service! There may be hope for this hotel after all."

"I wouldn't rate it more than one star," the physicist replied.

Ulster made no comment, looking from one cage to the other thoughtfully. The black-clad man was also silent, standing like a statue, gaze fixed steadily forward. Peter pushed himself to his feet, craned his neck to get a better look at the tray over Ulster's shoulder. Besides the bottle there was a clear stoppered flask of a violet liquid, a narrow brown cylinder, and a plastic-wrapped hypodermic. All glittered sterilely in the florescent light, mirrored in the polished tray.

Biting the edge of his lip, Peter fought back a sudden surge of panic. This was serious. Ulster wasn't playing a game here; he wasn't merely trying to scare them. He had an experiment and they were his subjects, to be afforded as much clemency as any guinea pigs. It was an effort to keep his tone flippant, when he couldn't tear his eyes away from that metal tray. "So what are we looking at? New type of aspirin or the cure for the common cold? You're only working for the greater good, am I right?"

"I doubt it, Peter," Egon said. "Scientists care about the pursuit of knowledge for beneficial ends, but mercenaries only do what they're instructed."

Ulster's brow lowered and Peter glared at Egon. The physicist had picked up entirely too many of his tricks over the years; usually Peter was the one who could get under folk's skin. If Egon continued pushing this way, Ulster might grow angry enough to do something about him.

Which might be what Egon had in mind, but it sure the hell wasn't Peter's plan, and the psychologist was used to controlling these types of situations. "So what are you testing? I don't like signing up until I know what I'm getting into. Examining side effects or mortality rates or what?"

"It's fairly simple," Ulster told them. He lifted the brown cylinder from the tray—a prescription drug bottle, Peter realized, unlabelled but for a white number stenciled on the side. "This is the substance under investigation. It's a derivative of lysergic acid diethylamide."

"LSD," Peter murmured. While he didn't remember most chemical terms for psychoactive drugs, that one he recognized. Words falling from a suddenly dry mouth, "Hallucinogens, then. For sale or private use? So this is how you get your weekend kicks. I knew there was a reason people went into biochemistry—"

"Hardly." Ulster seemed more amused than insulted. "Unlike you, Dr. Venkman, I believe in science as an end in itself, not as an excuse to pick up women or attend college for the parties. There is a specific goal to these experiments, which you will help us achieve. To begin, we must ascertain the basic effects of this," and he shook the bottle slightly. Its dull rattle echoed off the gray walls. "It doesn't always work the same way; we must adjust the dosage for every individual."

Egon was right. He had done this before, how many times...with different drugs, perhaps, or different purposes. What was his goal now? What effect was this particular substance supposed to have?

Not anything fun, Peter knew. Ulster hadn't specifically chosen the two of them just to give them a good time. Recreational drugs, other than alcohol, had never been his preference; even at the wildest frat parties, he had stuck to beer and left the experimenters alone. He didn't take cold medicine if he could avoid it; he hated the drowsiness, the feeling that his body was out of his control, and worse, his mind. He hadn't been smashed since college because he had found he disliked being intoxicated; he had drunk with the best of them, but his tolerance was high enough that he had always stayed aware of where he was, what he was doing.

The memory of his single experience with hallucinogens made his skin crawl, when he looked at the bottle between Ulster's fingers. Then he looked past the scientist and saw Egon's pale face, his eyes also focused on the brown cylinder.

Egon never had been a partier, and though when Peter was sick he might force medication on him, the physicist himself preferred his mother's remedies over conventional drugs. He valued his mind, his brilliance, clear rational thought, over nearly anything. If losing control over those thoughts disturbed Peter, it terrified Egon; the worst nightmare he could imagine.

Ulster must understand this. And he couldn't miss the fear in his former colleague's eyes. Yet he ignored it, impersonally deliberating between them with all the compassion he'd show two equal specimens in a petri dish.

That he and Egon could be so reduced in this so-called scientist's eyes filled him with a rage so fierce his clenched fists shook. Peter fought back the tide, drew a breath and forced himself to speak calmly. Emotional displays wouldn't help their case, and there was a lot at stake here. Too much to let his hatred get the best of him. "You need only one subject, right? I—"

"I volunteer," Egon interrupted him quietly. "I—"

"I volunteer," Peter cut him off, kept talking to prevent the physicist from arguing his case. "Whatever you've got there, I'd be the better choice for it. Like you said, I have some experience with this kind of stuff. And I'm a psychologist—I can give an honest evaluation of my experiences, give you a handle on my mental state. I'm game for it. I'll be able to handle it better than him," nodding toward Egon.

Ulster cocked his head with a faint smile. "So you're volunteers after all?"

"We have no choice," Egon growled. Peter glanced at him, wondering if he had ever heard that tone in his friend's voice before. He usually kept his cool better than that, far better than Peter ever could manage. "But you're making the decision, and I suggest that I am the better candidate—"

"Don't let him bullshit you, Kenny," Peter said. "You know how he can be—you worked with him long enough. He can reason anything, but it doesn't mean he's right."

"Peter—"

"I concede your point, Dr. Venkman," Ulster allowed. "And for this you're correct—you are the better choice. Don't worry, Spengler; you'll be needed in the later phases of the experiments. For the beginning, though..." Unscrewing the cap, he shook the contents of the medicine bottle into his hand. "Dr. Venkman, if necessary we will inject you, but we would prefer to observe the effects when taken orally."

Peter licked his lips. In the corner of his eye he could see Egon watching them with a sort of horrified intensity, barely shaking his head in wordless denial. "Orally's fine," he said. "Beats needles any day." He stuck out his hand through the bars and Ulster dropped a pair of capsules into his palm, then handed him the bottled water.

The pills were lavender, tiny oblong ellipses. They looked no different than a doctor's prescription and weighed next to nothing. Peter eyed the small forms, thinking of how easy it would be to palm them, pretend to swallow and fake his reactions. It would help if he had some idea what his reactions were supposed to be, of course...

"We'll take blood tests later," Ulster remarked, as if following his thoughts. "If you don't swallow now, we'll simply inject you then, but the chances of an accidental overdose will be higher."

Higher? How much higher, and how much later would they take the tests? Should he try it, anyway? Ray and Winston were coming, he had no doubts about that. But how long before they arrived, that he couldn't say; how far would this experiment progress? If he cooperated now, acted the willing subject, later he might have more of an opening, a better chance of catching them off-guard and escaping. Only two pills, not a full dose in the beginning, just a trial run. Ulster wasn't trying to kill them, it seemed. Just getting his experiments done.

Peter uncapped the water, took a swig. Refreshing, untainted; what would be the point of drugging the water? "Sure these should be taken on an empty stomach, Kenny?"

"It's best that way," Ulster told him. "For yourself as well as for our observations."

"Got it." He looked across the way, met Egon's eyes and raised the water bottle to him. "Cheers, Spengs. And bottoms up." Popping the capsules in his mouth, he washed them down with another gulp of water. They tasted like nothing, only the bland, plasticky texture of the coating, and they slid down his throat without a catch, vanishing into his stomach. They'd start dissolving as soon as they made it down, swiftly absorbed into his bloodstream, but he couldn't feel it happening, had no way to gauge the drug's progress through his system.

Ulster nodded with satisfaction and took back the water bottle. Without another word, he walked out the door, the guard following with his tray.

Egon looked to Peter, lines of anger still etched into his face. "You took them, didn't you? You shouldn't have—"

"I should've made them jab me? I've never liked shots, Egon."

"You shouldn't have volunteered," the physicist said. "I could have as easily—"

"Nope." Peter shook his head. "We need you to think of an escape plan. Doesn't do us any good if your brain is scrambled."

"Ulster didn't choose you to keep me thinking clearly," Egon angrily refuted. "You were deliberately provoking him—"

"Me? What were you doing, trying to make up? Gotta work on those people skills, big guy. To me it looked like you were deliberately pissing him off." Leaning against the bars, he slid down to the floor again and crossed his legs.

"Peter?" All the ire fled Egon's voice, leaving only anxious concern. "Peter, are you—? Do you feel—?"

He turned back toward his friend. "I feel fine." Egon had crouched to match his eye level, face wan, peering at him through the bars of their cages. Peter reassured him, "I don't think anything's happening yet. Hey, what do you think the chances are that it was a placebo? Ulster's just playing us along to see our reactions, and there wasn't anything in those capsules?"

"Possible," Egon granted. "But unlikely. He knows you're a psychologist, and that we'd think of such a test. That would ruin the effect, correct?"

"If I don't believe anything would happen? Yeah." Peter closed his eyes, inspected himself from the inside—internal diagnostic, just like a machine. Headache and nausea both nearly gone, leaving him a little hungry. The room temperature was average, neither too cold nor too hot, and there were no drafts against his skin. No sounds, except their breathing and the faint hum of the florescent lights. Everything felt normal.

How would he know if it didn't; would he even notice? He might not; sometimes hallucinators were aware of the unreality of what they saw, and sometimes they weren't. There were so many different types, auditory, visual, tactile, heightened sensations, distorted perceptions, not to mention accompanying states like hyperactivity and paranoia. Would he recognize any of them, or would they all seem natural when they came, real?

Egon would recognize them. Egon would be unaffected; he could tell reality from fantasy, and Peter could trust him to know the difference. Peter could trust what Egon told him, always. He clung to that desperately and wondered if it could be taken from him, could that trust be torn from his mind, and would Egon forgive him if it were...

Opening his eyes again, he met Egon's gaze, behind the glasses drawn and worried. "I feel fine," he repeated, hesitated and went on, "Spengs, did I ever tell you I did a hallucinogen?"

"_What?_" Egon's eyes went round, flashing with renewed anger.

"It was an experiment. No, not like that. Or this." Peter rapped his knuckles against a bar. "Remember my studies on lucid dreaming? There're parallels between a dream and an hallucinatory state. I made some observations at parties and wanted to test it firsthand. It was in a controlled setting, I took a small dose of a mild substance, nothing like LSD. It wasn't illegal, I got a prescription."

"We had been friends for several years when you did those studies," Egon said irately, "and you never mentioned this."

Wincing, "Yeah, you can see why. I knew how you'd react. Don't worry, I wasn't tempted to try anything like that again." Peter fell silent, resting his chin on his bent knees as he thought back to the experiment. He had enlisted Ray's assistance, to observe that night in case something did go wrong. Ray had been enough in awe of him back then that Peter had convinced him to keep it from Egon. Wouldn't work now, though of course if he wanted to try something so dumb now, he would tell Egon. The physicist had learned a little more patience with him, and wouldn't stop him unless his concerns truly warranted it. Peter knew he could trust him in that as well as everything else.

Egon's thoughts might have taken a similar track; at any rate he was calm when he spoke again. "So what happened?"

Peter shivered, knew it was a futile wish that Egon had missed the reaction. When he looked over, his friend was watching him intently again, the worry in his expression only heightened. He took a deep breath, released it and tried to banish the memories. Nightmares walking abroad from the darkness of his unconscious— "A bad trip, Spengs. Really bad."

And it hadn't been that much. Only a few milligrams, and not whatever had been in those purple capsules, whatever was snaking through his blood now, streaming toward his brain. Would he know it when it hit, or had it hit already? Were the lights brighter or was that only his imagination? He thought he could hear his heart beating, and another pulse echoing it, but that might only be in his mind. No way to know the difference.

He swallowed, suddenly reached his hand through the bars, stretching out toward the other cage. Egon responded instantly, extending his own arm. Their hands clasped in the middle, Egon threading his fingers through his friend's and squeezing with reassuring pressure. Peter felt the warmth of his skin and knew that touch at least was real.

"Egon?" he whispered, and blue eyes met his, fiery, but not with rage. Just beyond the edge of his vision, sparks danced and snapped. When he twisted his head toward them, they vanished. Not a placebo. He wanted to say something about them, something glib and reassuring, dismissing their unreality, so Egon would know he wasn't convinced by them, that he still was in control, aware. But his tongue felt thick and he couldn't find the words.

Egon's grip tightened around his hand and he hung on for all he was worth, as if he were falling from a cliff and this hold would save him. "Peter?" he heard Egon ask, but his mouth didn't seem to move in time with the word, sight and sound dividing.

"Egon, I'm scared," he muttered, hopefully too quietly to be picked up by Ulster's watching camera. It was an admission only for his friend, because he wouldn't use it against him, because he would understand. He wondered if his words emerged at the same time he worked his lips, or were they too out of synch, and would Egon even hear them.

Egon did, because he replied in a deep murmur, issuing from his still white face, "So am I."

And then Peter fell.

 

* * *

Despite having gotten to bed well past midnight, Winston arose early, with the sun. He was the last one in the firehall up, however, since the only other person around was Ray, and Winston doubted Ray had slept at all.

He found his friend in the study, checking e-mail on their main computer. Ray looked up at the footsteps on the stair and attempted to smile. "Good morning."

"'Morning," Winston replied, squinting over him at the screen. "Get anything?"

"No." Ray sank down in the chair. "No phone calls, either. I hoped..."

"We're gonna find them," Winston assured him. No doubts there; they couldn't afford them.

Last night hadn't been one to inspire confidence. Upon discovering the misplaced pack and the missing uniforms, Ray had wasted no time in resetting a PKE meter to scan for biorhythms. They had driven around the campus for hours, trying to pick up a trace, the faintest signal of their friends' presence. Campus security had joined the search, anxious to avoid the embarrassment of losing their celebrated alumni. If Peter or Egon had been within a couple of miles, even injured or unconscious, at a party or hiding in the audience, they would have found them.

They hadn't. And the two missing men hadn't taken Ecto-1, so unless they had called a cab, or Ulster had driven...where would they have gone, when they knew the ceremony was coming?

That was assuming Kenneth Ulster had anything to do with this. Winston had seen him with their friends, but the Ghostbusters had a lot of enemies, mostly supernatural, some human. Any one of them could have picked last night to act, take them down at the height of their popularity. Though why he and Ray would be ignored...

A nagging voice in the back of his head kept murmuring, what was the good of revenge if your victims didn't suffer? Together they were too formidable for their foes; together they could handle just about anything, and had proved it multiple times. Apart...

Apart they were still a force to be reckoned with. Winston pitied the fool who took on Egon and Peter; both his teammates were stubborn, smart, resourceful men. Egon could outthink anyone on the planet, Winston was firmly convinced, given all their chess games; and Peter, well, anyone who abducted Dr. Venkman was biting off more than they could chew. Pete could talk his way out of just about anything, and annoy his way out of the rest. And if that didn't work, he had a mean right hook. All of which Ulster knew—

"Do you think we can call the police yet?" Ray disrupted his thoughts.

Winston shook his head. "Not yet. They won't put out an APB until they're gone for twenty-four hours." Twenty-four hours—twenty-four hours ago they had all been asleep, getting their rest before a big day. Now... "We'll call tonight, if we haven't found them by then."

Neither he nor Ray even considered the possibility that nothing had happened, that Peter and Egon had decided to skip the ceremony and pursue their own affairs. Alone, he could see either of them so distracted, but what would interest Egon wouldn't matter nearly so much to Peter, and what Peter might pursue wouldn't affect Egon. There had been no signs of supernatural activity on the campus, but whatever had happened to them didn't have to have been supernatural.

It went beyond logic, though. Ray had been upset before it became clear they weren't just running late. Winston had noticed that in his teammates before, an almost uncanny awareness of one another. They would complete each other's sentences, and often they knew without being told where the others were, what they were up to. Old friends could be like that, because of their long familiarity with one another's habits. But his buddies were different. If one of them were in trouble, the others knew. It happened on busts; when someone was cornered, they'd all come running, even if he hadn't had a chance to call for help.

That included Winston. He had realized sometime back that whatever it was they had between them had transferred onto him as well. Egon had once suggested, in an off-hand tone that might have been joking but probably wasn't, that their repeated exposure to psycho-kinetic energies gave them marginally telepathic abilities; maybe that had rubbed off on him. Because right now he knew precisely why Ray was climbing the walls. He felt it, too, an uneasiness, like a lump in his throat that couldn't be swallowed.

Some of the disturbance in his gut was hunger, he suspected. "Hey, Ray, have you eaten yet this morning?" When his friend shook his head, Winston took his arm and hauled him out of the chair. "Come on, I'll make breakfast."

After a final e-mail check, Ray followed him to the kitchen, where Winston whipped up a batch of pancakes. From scratch, not a mix, the way his mother did them; he didn't care one way or another, and Peter wasn't here to thank him for the effort, but at least it gave him something to do. Flour, eggs, milk, baking powder; measure, stir, and pour the mixture onto the griddle. While it didn't help their missing friends any, it was better than nothing.

That was the problem. If they had gotten a PKE reading of Class 9 on the campus and a ransom demand from Gozer's first cousin, Ray wouldn't be sitting at the table with his chin in his hands and his elbows on the place mat. He'd be tearing through Egon's lab, throwing together a device that could take on the whole Netherworld; he wouldn't have stopped until he'd found them, to hell with the odds.

This, though—they hadn't even started, not knowing where, or how, or even who. Ghosts, goblins, demons, the Ghostbusters could handle it, no problem. But the complete disappearance of half the team...

So Winston made breakfast, even if Ray was equally uninterested in pancakes. He emptied the maple syrup over his serving, but his attention was on the phone, staring as if he could make it ring by sheer willpower.

Winston sighed; even if it did, it wouldn't be Peter and Egon. They both knew it. Wishing wouldn't do any good—they had to act. Treat this as a mystery and try to solve it, ghosts or no ghosts. Ray would do better for the distraction, even if they didn't accomplish anything. Winston stuck his head in front of the phone and asked, "Ray, how well did you know this Ken Ulster?"

Blinking, Ray refocused on him. "A little, I guess. Not much. He wasn't Egon's friend anymore, by the time I started hanging around with him and Peter." While the topic was the same, his tone was entirely different from the enthusiastic chatter with which he had described their college days yesterday.

"And you didn't get along with him," Winston encouraged.

Ray shook his head. "Kenny—Ken didn't like the occult." A small smile crossed his lips. "He didn't like being called Kenny much, either, so that was all Peter ever used. I was there the first time Egon called him that, by accident, I think—Ken was furious. He didn't get angry very often...he could be cruel even when he wasn't mad." Ray's eyes dropped to his orange juice. "He thought I was a bad influence on Egon, because I was so excited about the supernatural I interested Egon in it. Egon believed in some of it already, but he hadn't been encouraged to learn about it. Peter drew him into the parapsychology, the psychic aspects, but I was the one who got him into the supernatural, the ghosts and all. Peter didn't believe in any of that, until he saw it."

"Pete as a skeptic. I can imagine it, maybe, but I can't see it."

"Until he saw a ghost, he thought I was crazy. He was my friend, and he defended me against Kenny and anyone else, but he thought I was nuts." Ray flashed a nearly-normal grin. "He still does, of course, me and Egon both. Peter's convinced you and he are the only sane ones around here...and he's not too sure about you."

Sobering just as fast, before Winston could form a comeback, he lowered his gaze again to his plate. "Ken thought I was bad for Egon's scientific career, and he thought Peter was even worse, because Peter was always dragging Egon out of the lab to parties and things, whenever he could get away with it. But that was years ago, and Egon and Ken haven't seen each other for a while, I don't think."

"They hadn't," Winston confirmed, remembering their hesitation identifying him.

Ray frowned. "Why would Ken try something now? When I knew him, he wasn't very nice. Peter used to call him the SOB as much as 'Kenny.' But he never hurt anyone; he was too busy with his research. And after this long..."

Of course Ray would doubt it. Ray saw evil in ghosts and demons and goblins, and faced them all unfazed. But when confronted with the possibility of evil in human form, he retreated; no matter what people had put him through in the past, he was forever an optimist, willing and ready to see the best sides of people. It was one of his greatest qualities, and one of his most dangerous, and Winston was never quite sure how to handle such experienced and determined innocence.

The phone rang. Ray was out of his chair before the sound registered in Winston's ears, across the kitchen and grabbing the receiver before it could ring a second time. "Hello, Ghostbuster Central—"

A pause as the other person spoke, and then his shoulders slumped. "No, I'm sorry, I have no comment. We don't know. I'm sorry, yes, I'll be willing later—we don't have anything." Hanging up with a curt goodbye, he leaned against the counter. "That was the _Herald_."

The press. Of course. Several news crews and a covey of reporters had been at the ceremony last night; the Ghostbusters, especially Peter, were popular with the media, and even when not busting ghosts they were a hot ticket. Their absence hadn't gone unnoticed, and a few reporters had caught Winston and Ray making the rounds of the campus, searching.

Ray had handled it remarkably well; Winston had trouble stopping himself from punching out the more obnoxious members of the press, but Ray had kept patient, neither denying nor confirming anything. He hadn't specifically mislead them, but somehow they had gotten the impression that the Ghostbusters were on a special emergency assignment, and Peter and Egon were separated for that reason. When the police started searching, it might help to have the media on their side, but until then they'd only be in the way.

"We'll need to call Janine," Ray remarked, lifting his head to the phone again. "If she sees on the news..."

Winston winced. No, that wouldn't go over well. "We can call her tonight, when we call the police. She's still on vacation until Monday—"

"She'll come back for this," Ray said. Absolutely true, especially since Egon was one of the missing—but Janine would return for any of them, even Peter. Winston wouldn't be surprised if she were aware even now that something was wrong; she was part of their circle, and that instinctual awareness affected her as well.

"So what now?" he asked aloud, and offered his own answer when Ray wasn't forthcoming. "The only lead we have so far is Kenneth Ulster. Why don't we investigate him, find out what he's doing now, where he's living, where he works? He wasn't invited to the dinner or the ceremony, but he must have had a reason for coming."

Other than to abduct their friends. Which, of course, they had no proof of, only circumstantial evidence, a sighting and an abandoned proton pack. Not enough to construct a case against anyone, he had read enough murder mysteries to know that. But they had nothing else to go on. He nudged Ray.

"Come on, homeboy, you're a scientist. You must know how to find other scientists. Aren't there directories or something?"

Ray considered this, brightened marginally. "Yeah, there are. There're also science journals. If he's published anything recently, it'll give his address. And we can look him up on the Internet; if he's a professor anywhere he's probably listed." Energized by the possibilities, he bounded up the stairs to the lab computer, Winston trailing after him.

He had had an uncomfortable thought. If this were Ulster, and it was some kind of revenge plot, then Ray would most likely be on his hit list as well. The three of them, all his enemies...

Winston didn't plan on letting Ray out of his sight for a minute. Two of his best friends had vanished; he had no intention of allowing the third to be nabbed as well, not if there was anything he could do about it.

There was an unconscious corollary to this, that it might already be too late for the other two, that there might not be anything they could do. Murder had been motivated by revenge before. He never would have said it aloud, but he had no need to, as it was. He had seen that fear in Ray's eyes, a terror so great that he might not even be consciously aware of it. If Egon and Peter had gone somewhere that they couldn't return...it would rip Winston apart from the inside out. What it would do to Ray was unfathomable.

If Ulster was behind this, no matter what the circumstances, Winston wanted him. The bastard was hurting his friends, and he wondered if whatever he was putting Egon and Peter through could match what Ray was undergoing, not knowing. Ray's imagination was enough to make this torture; for that alone Ulster would pay. If there was more...

But meanwhile he had two friends to find and another who needed his support, and that was far more important than anger or vengeance. Winston hung over Ray's shoulder, watching the computer screen as he ran the searches, offering what help he could and hoping it would be enough.

 

* * *

Egon had experienced living nightmares before. The Boogieman, when he was young, and later, demons of the likes of Watt and Tolay, demigods like Gozer, all manner of ghosts and terrors. They were his job, to face them, fight them, defeat them. Only a foolish man denied his fear, and Egon was never that; he had been afraid before, and withstood it.

But none of those horrors had frightened him like this one; none of those nightmares tore his soul like this. He gripped the bars of his cage so tightly his fingers were numb, but human strength couldn't part them, no matter the will behind it. Would that he were a ghost, to pass through them—but he was living flesh, and trapped.

He didn't know how long it had been; he who had never needed a clock to make his appointments on time had lost all sense of time in this windowless room, the florescent lights unchanging overhead, bright and steady. Perhaps it had been an hour, perhaps two. It felt like two lifetimes or more, an eternity, and in that eon, he had watched, unable to do any more, while Peter Venkman alone descended into hell.

At first it had seemed passable. When the drug had first tickled the edges of his mind, he had been aware of it, aware of Egon. Through the bars they had grasped one another's hands, and Egon had felt how cold his friend's skin was, had heard the slight tremor in his voice as he admitted his fear. He had scarcely sounded like Peter, and the admission was not one he would usually make, but he was still present.

Quite calmly, he had described the onset of the hallucinations, for Ulster, as he had promised, and also for his own sake, so Egon could assure him of what was real and what was not. Visual and audio, flashes and distant whispers. Peter's fingers had tightened around his until it was painful, but he had only squeezed the harder for it, determined not to let go, giving him at least that real contact. Through that touch, he had felt Peter tremble as invisible creatures brushed against him, through his clothing—"I feel it, Egon, it's not real, they're not real, but I feel them..."

He had tried to pull away, but Egon kept holding on, talking soothingly, a meaningless stream of nonsense, trying to scientifically make sense of what was senseless, perceptions with no basis in reality, except in Peter's mind. Reminding him of what was happening to him, assuring him that it would pass, that he would be all right—he didn't know what to say. Peter was the psychologist; he had some knowledge of this, but it was locked away inside his mind, and his mind was under siege.

Then the visions began taking form, not merely confusion, but actual illusions. Peter mumbled about ghosts, a haunting, clouded green eyes fixed on a point near the ceiling, his hand slack in Egon's.

"What do you see?" Egon pressed, but Peter shook his head, "No—I'm sorry—I can't help you—" and didn't answer, tears leaking from the corners of his wide eyes.

"Peter, please..." Egon had tightened his grip, trying to draw his attention, and then Peter had screamed, wrenched his hand free and rocketed backwards to the opposite side of cage, digging his back into the bars as if trying to force his wiry form through them. His hands flew up to shield his face from an imperceptible attack, and all the while he shouted, at first almost intelligibly for help, but that faded into a wordless wail, neither a human nor an animal cry, interrupted by sobs for breath and dying as he lost his voice.

Egon didn't know what he saw, what nightmares came roaring to life from his unconscious mind. There were more than enough to choose from in their line of work, though Peter was rarely frightened by anything they encountered, beyond the initial panic response. He tended literally to laugh in the face of danger, joke in the darkest crises; he kept them calm in the worst situations.

He wasn't laughing now. Whatever he was experiencing was so terrifying as to split all reason from him—or was that the drug, causing not only the visions but the terror as well? He couldn't fight them. He had tried at first, but had been swept along by the power of his own twisted thoughts. Demons, Egon thought he had heard him say. And insects, running over his skin, clawing at him with tiny dry legs and pinching mandibles. Peter had never liked insects.

And other fears as well, because Egon had heard him call their names a single time, hoarsely, after the shouting had drained him. "Egon? Winston? Ray?" Soft and ragged, heartbreaking in its longing. He had never heard that note Peter's voice before, desperate, hopeless.

"I'm here, Peter," he had said. "It's Egon. I haven't left, I promise. I'm right here..." But Peter hadn't heard, and there was no way reach him through the distance separating their cages.

Now Peter huddled in the far corner, head between his knees, panting as if every breath were a struggle. His hair hung over his face, black with sweat. He hadn't made a sound in too long, not a word or even a moan; but his eyes were open, green through the dark strands.

Egon's throat was dry and his mind was empty, but he forced his voice to work. "Peter?" No movement from his friend, no way of knowing if the other man could hear him at all, or react if he did. Egon talked regardless, searching his pale face for any response, the slightest flicker of awareness in that blank emerald stare. "You're going to be fine, Peter, you'll be all right. You were drugged, by Ulster. It's an experiment, I don't know what they're testing, but it's wearing off now, I think." So he hoped, prayed. "You're going to be okay."

This wasn't Peter, he couldn't help but think; only his friend's body, while his mind, his spirit, was gone, fled so far within that only autonomous functions remained. Still breathing, heart still beating, but his thoughts were locked away, unexpressed by voice or action. Inside himself, with only the nightmares. Peter was strong, the strongest Egon knew, but how could he take that, with nowhere to hide, and alone... He couldn't reach Peter. His fingers couldn't even touch his friend's cell, let alone his hunched form curled against the far side.

There had to be a way to reach him all the same, if not physically, then through his voice, talking him out, drawing him from this terrible lost dream-state back to conscious awareness.

"Peter, please listen to me, answer me if you can. You're not alone, I'm here. I know how frightening it must be, but it's all in your mind, there's nothing to be afraid of. Whatever you see, it can't hurt you, not if you don't let it." It wasn't working, he wasn't getting through; he didn't know if Peter could even hear him, let alone listen. His voice nearly cracked, stuttering as he tried to reassure, "I won't let—won't let anything harm you. Whatever you're seeing, I won't allow it to hurt you..."

It wasn't precisely false, for whatever existed only in his mind couldn't hurt his body; but it was far from true. Egon couldn't protect his friend from more of this. Though he would do all he could, it wouldn't be enough, not if Ulster returned. The lie curdled his stomach.

But Peter responded, his head lifting fractionally, and the green eyes focused, finding him. Egon stared back, afraid he might be imagining it, misinterpreting the motion.

"Peter—"

No voice came, but the pale lips moved, and he read the silent words, _Thank you_. One hand loosened its hold around his knees and reached toward him, trembling with fatigue, fingers dangling limp as if the effort to extend them were too great.

Shaking his head blindly, Egon stretched out his own hand; it didn't matter if he couldn't reach, that he made the effort was enough that the corners of Peter's mouth turned up. So tiny an expression, nothing like his usual grin, but it was Peter's, and through the exhaustion and the passing terror in his gaze, Egon could see a hint of the life that defined his friend. It was over, the worst of it at least, and he had survived it, somehow come to terms with the visions and risen above them.

Egon opened his mouth to speak, but Peter, as he so often did, beat him to it. His whisper rattled in his hoarse throat, and it was a strain to hear it, but the words were carefully enunciated. "Glad it wasn't you..." Then his head slumped to the side as if it were too heavy to support, eyes fluttering closed.

Egon watched him breathe, slowly, like sleep, though too shallowly. He called Peter's name, but his friend never stirred; his respiration seemed steady, at least. With no other options, Egon sank from his crouch to sit heavily on the floor, pressing his forehead against the bars of the cage. Closing his eyes, he stared into the blackness behind his lids and tried to focus on more productive thoughts, hypothesizing on the purpose of this experiment, planning escape. But even with his eyes shut against distractions, it was nearly impossible to concentrate when the only sound he was aware of was the faintest rasp of his friend's breaths.

He was not aware of dozing off, but he must have, because when he next looked up Kenneth Ulster stood over him, gray eyes narrowed speculatively.

Pushing himself away from the cool bars, Egon looked past the doctor into the other cell. Peter was curled in the corner on his side, arms loosely wrapped around his knees, drawn up to his chest. He was not moving and his too-white face was tight, jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut. As Egon watched, he trembled once, tightened his grip around his legs.

At that proof of life, the physicist sank back against the bars, unable to prevent the sigh of relief which escaped him, blinking back water welling up in the corners of his eyes.

His glasses didn't hide the tears, however. Hearing a snort, he raised his gaze to Ulster.

"What happened to you, Spengler?" the other scientist demanded. "You used to be the best, the brightest. And you didn't let your emotions get the best of you. You used to be better than that. Mind over heart, reason over instinct. We're men, not animals."

"Some of us are," Egon shot back, glaring through his lenses up at his former colleague. "Others of us would be vastly improved if they possessed the scruples of a weasel." He half-hoped the sound of his voice would awaken Peter, but there was no response from his friend.

Ulster followed his gaze, sneered, "What'd he do to you? I never knew what you saw in him, Spengler, but when you started hanging around with him... You thought you could be a good influence, maybe? But he corrupted you, instead. You should've stayed with me, we could've accomplished great things together."

"In a place like this? With men in cages?" snapped Egon. "Maybe he 'corrupted' me, as you say, but I was no fan of torture even before I met Peter Venkman."

"It's not torture," the other doctor said. "There's no sadism involved. I may not like the man, but I don't care what happens to him one way or another. All that matters is the work. If he dies, that tells us something; if he lives, that tells us something as well. Either way, it advances knowledge; I have no personal stake in it. You used to understand—this is science, Spengler. The pursuit of knowledge."

"There are things more important than science," Egon whispered, watching Peter in the other cell, focusing on his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath.

"Such as? Fame? Money? Women?" Ulster rolled his eyes. "What has he convinced you? He never cared about science, not as much as he cared about his own pleasure. Don't tell me he taught you to be a hedonist as well. You were an aesthetic, Spengler; you were far better than that."

"I'm a better man now than I was then," Egon told him wearily, not trying to argue, only affirming it for himself. Even as he said it, he knew how true it was. And not only because he was someone important, someone halfway famous, and not only because he had made valuable scientific discoveries, broken ground into whole new areas of study. But because of who he was now, and who his friends were.

"You're a far worse scientist," Ulster replied, as if it were the most heinous insult he could conceive of. "I hope you can control yourself well enough not to get hurt, or should we restrain you?"

Egon frowned up at him. "Why?"

"Because we're taking your 'friend' now," the scientist said. He motioned and two burly black-clothed guards, both different that the one who had brought the tray before, came forward. One stood watch while the other produced a key and unlocked the door to Peter's cell.

Exhausted as he was, Egon shot to his feet as if yanked by strings. "No, what are you doing? Where are you taking him?"

"It doesn't matter," Ulster remarked. "You aren't part of this experiment, Spengler, and there's nothing you can do."

Egon tried to slow his breathing, speak rationally for all the shrieking in his mind. "Then it would hardly affect your results if you told me what you planned."

"Just as it wouldn't have any effect if I didn't waste the time to tell you." Ulster gestured the guard. He entered, crouched by the prone man and poked his back interrogatively. Peter shuddered, but made no other motion, eyes still screwed shut. Shrugging, the guard hooked a thick arm under him, heaved him up and draped him over his shoulder in a rough fireman's carry. Peter hung there, limp, as the man marched from the cell.

Egon wrapped his hands around the bars, fighting the urge to push at them; such a display would be a useless waste of energy. He might strain a muscle, but the steel would not give. Ulster saw his white-knuckled grip, and smiled.

Squeezing the bars, Egon visualized the scientist's thick neck under his hands, using the mental image to calm his thoughts and speak coolly. "Ulster, he's already been tested; it would be best to use a new subject so as to not influence your results on this next round of experiments."

"And you offer yourself, hmm?" Ulster shook his head. "Sorry, Spengler, you don't understand the nature of these tests. Venkman is the perfect subject for the next round; he's already been prepped. You'll have your chance to participate, don't worry. Until then," and he bowed sardonically, turned to follow the guard.

"Ulster—please—" Egon gasped. "You said yourself, I'm the better scientist. I could follow what you are trying to do, assist in your data collection. If I were the subject, I could supply whatever variables—"

"A touching offer, but I must refuse."

"Kenneth," he pled, "whatever you want, please, allow me—"

But Ulster walked out after the guards and closed the door behind him, leaving Egon alone in the room. The gray-green fluorescents illuminated the empty cell across the way. For a long moment he stared at where Peter had lain, wondering if that had been his last glimpse of his friend, the final time he would ever see him. Knowing there was nothing he could do.

The scream erupted from him before he was aware of it forming, tore his throat and left it raw and aching, the sound ringing in his ears in the stillness that followed. It accomplished nothing, of course; not so much as a single guard came to investigate the cry. But neither did it worsen the situation, and if he felt no better for it, the release at least allowed him to relax his grip on the bars, remove his shaking hands and smooth back his hair before settling once more on the cement floor. He would wait, because he had no choice. Eventually something would change in his situation, and when it did he would act upon it. And if he were too late...

It did no good to continue that thought. He would wait. And eventually things would start to improve, because there was no conceivable way that they could get any worse.

 

* * *

At the end of the day, Winston finally persuaded Ray to go to bed. He was quite sure he couldn't have managed that, had it not been over thirty-six hours since Ray had closed his eyes for more than a blink. At dinner, he stared owlishly at his meal, not eating until Winston told him to, though once he started, he didn't stop until he had polished his plate. Neither of them had grabbed a bite the entire day; Winston hadn't himself realized how hungry he was until he had tasted the pepperoni and found himself wolfing down pizza faster than he could swallow.

After they ate, they phoned the police to explain the situation, and then Janine. Winston handled the calls, but when the plainclothesman turned up at the door, it was Ray who answered most of his questions, quietly and surely, while Winston contributed what little he knew and watched his friend the rest of the interview. He was grateful that Inspector Frump wasn't on the night shift; this detective seemed nice enough, sympathetic but soberly professional, and honestly concerned about the fate of the absent Ghostbusters.

When he left, Ray collapsed back on the couch, his composure tumbling down like so many toy blocks. "God, Winston, we don't have anything, do we?" Explaining it to the detective had made that ugly fact clear. "We spent the whole day and we don't even know about Ulster, or if he has anything to do with this. They're not anywhere in the city. How are the police going to—?"

Winston dropped a hand on his shoulder to silence him. "They're gonna do the best they can, like we will, tomorrow. And don't give up on Egon and Pete yet. We might get a call at midnight saying there's a giant SOS blazing on a hillside, signed Venkman and Spengler. They know we're looking, and they'll do all they can to help." Assuming they could do anything at all...but that was the last thing Ray needed to hear, even if he were already thinking it.

His friend nodded, eagerly accepting the encouragement. "Yeah, or maybe Slimer will find them." Their resident ghost had made an appearance that afternoon, after concluding an extended garbage-hunting expedition. Ray had explained the situation and sent him searching. Ray's evident worry and the ghost's own fondness for Egon and Peter had impinged itself on Slimer's limited attention span, and he could, when motivated, be an excellent tracker. It was a possibility, but he hadn't returned yet. While Winston wasn't getting his own hopes up, Ray needed something to hold onto.

He made himself smirk. "Yeah, Pete will love that—rescued by the spud. He'd never live it down."

"We wouldn't let him," Ray mustered an answering grin, interrupted by a yawn.

Winston helped him up, steadying him with a hand on his arm. "That's it, homeboy, we're going to bed. The way your eyes are crossing, you won't be able to read a computer screen, anyway." He steered him to the door and pushed him upstairs to the bedroom. Ray didn't resist, not when his protest was cut off by another enormous yawn. He obediently donned his pajamas and crawled into bed, casting one glance at the other side of the room.

Winston followed his gaze to Egon's neatly made bed, the quilted cover smoothed without a wrinkle, and then Peter's four-poster, the sheets still tangled and the comforter on the floor where it had been discarded after Ray had whipped it off. Peter had never picked it up; he wouldn't have bothered until he had needed it the next night. Winston had been too tired the night before to even notice; now he went over, shook out the blanket and spread it over the rumpled sheets. He didn't bother smoothing out the lumps, and Ray smiled half-heartedly, remarked, "Better job than Peter usually does. Good night, Winston."

"G'night, Ray," he replied, and for an instant, heard in his mind Egon echo it, and Peter making a snide comment about the Waltons, as they did so many nights.

Didn't feel right, this way, only the two of them. He was used to more noise. Odd that it would be harder to fall asleep in quiet, but there it was. Exhausted as he was, Ray likely didn't notice. It took Winston longer than usual to adjust to the silence, but with the needs of stress and fatigue, he managed to drop off.

He awoke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, fists crumpling his sheets so tightly his fingers were stiff with pins and needles. Only a nightmare, though it took time for his breathing to slow. Beyond occasional vague flashes, Winston rarely remembered his dreams, but this one stayed vivid in his mind's eye, not fading when his eyes snapped open. He had been falling, only it wasn't the normal falling nightmare, tumbling through space, dreading the landing, though you know you'd wake before you hit. He had been falling inside something, through a tube, a chute, silver panels rushing past him. The wind howled in his ears, but it wasn't his speed that frightened him, rather, what he was rushing towards, something beneath him at the bottom of the passage. He couldn't see it, but he knew what it was, as surely as if Egon had told him: a monster waiting to swallow him, chew his body and savor the taste of his blood.

That wasn't the worst part, though; the worst part was that he could see Egon and Peter below. They had jumped first and were falling ahead of him, and the beast would grab them first, devour them as he watched. He fought to get in front, but they were all dropping at the same speed, and he couldn't quite reach them, though he flailed through the air. He could catch himself against the metal walls and stop his fall, but then he wouldn't save them, and so he kept falling, striving to reach them before—

Winston unclenched his fists, stared up at the ceiling and waited for his heart to stop pounding in his ears. Just a dream—no matter how clearly he could see it now, no matter that his fingers still could feel the cool metal wall sliding past, the perception undimmed by the soft cotton sheets he touched now. Crazy things, dreams. Peter could probably tell him more about how they fooled the senses.

The glowing red display of the clock by Egon's bed flipped from 2:59 to 3:00. He lay on his back, shut his eyes and started counting down from twenty, but before he began, he noticed a disturbance in the room's quiet. Not the accustomed snores, but breaths catching like sobs. Through the darkness he looked to the adjacent bed, rolled off his own and made his way over, grasping his roommate's shadowy shoulder.

"Ray?"

He was deep asleep, still sobbing softly. Shaking him, Winston whispered, "Wake up, it's just a dream, Ray." His friend jerked up with a gasp and he caught him, held him in place. "Hey, homeboy—"

With a shudder, Ray threw his arms around him and squeezed like Winston was his Mr. Stay Puft doll. The older man let him cling, patting his back soothingly.

"It's okay..."

Gradually, as he came more awake, Ray relaxed his stranglehold, releasing his teammate with a mumbled, "I'm sorry...thanks, Winston."

"It's all right," Winston told him. "Quite a grip you've got. That must have been some nightmare—remember any of it?"

He couldn't make out Ray's face in the blackness, only the vague silhouette of his head, but his voice was clear. "It was weird. I was in a pit, it was very dark. I couldn't see anything, but I could feel things—I don't know what, snake things, curling around my legs. And I heard Peter, he was—he was yelling for help, but I couldn't tell where he was. Then I saw Egon. I don't know how, because it was still dark, but he was behind a glass wall, banging against it. He could hear Peter, too, but he couldn't get out, and I couldn't hear what he was shouting, but I knew, I knew if I could get to him, I could break the glass, and then he could help Peter. But I couldn't reach him, because the snakes were in the way, and I couldn't step on the snakes because that would kill them. They were all around me, everywhere, and I couldn't move, and I tried to shout, but Egon couldn't hear me, and neither could Peter..."

"Sounds pretty bad," Winston agreed.

Ray's shadowy form nodded. "I...I knew it was a dream, but I couldn't wake up. I had to help them..." He shivered. "Did I wake you up?"

Winston sighed. "No, I woke myself up. I had a nightmare, too, a real doozy. Weird like yours, too." He related it, surprised that the details were still distinct. "The weirdest part is, I don't usually have dreams of falling, and I've never had nightmares with monsters, even after all the ones we've run into. Maybe it's stress."

"Maybe..." Ray sounded more awake, taking on a touch of the eager tone he got when he had an idea. "They were similar, actually, weren't they? We were both in enclosed spaces, and we knew there were monsters, but we couldn't see them, and Peter and Egon were in trouble and we were trying to help and couldn't—"

"I'm not Pete," Winston said, "but that only makes sense. That's what we're doing now, trying to help them, and we haven't found anything yet."

"But it might mean something," Ray insisted. "When you're asleep, your subconscious is open. I assisted Peter with the controlled dreaming studies for his psychology dissertation. Sometimes you can, not quite communicate, but sense things, when you're asleep, that you can't when you're awake."

Winston frowned, though Ray couldn't see it. Ten years ago, he would have laughed at the suggestion; now it was a real consideration. He approached it practically. "I don't know anything about that psychic stuff. But even if it's real, unless they can draw a map for us or something, it doesn't help." He clapped Ray on the shoulder reassuringly as he stood. "We should just get to sleep now. We aren't gonna do any good without rest."

Climbing back into his own bed, he breathed evenly to relax himself. No more dreams or visions, only necessary rest.

He was on the near side of slumber when he heard Ray's voice, quiet, sleepy and unhappy. "Winston—do you think they're dead?"

"No," he answered automatically, and only then realized his conviction. He wasn't trying to comfort Ray; he had replied with what he knew was true. For himself more than his friend, he repeated it, "No, they're alive, and we're going to find them."

"I think we are, too," Ray mumbled. "I want to..." His breathing trailed off into the evenness of sleep. Winston closed his eyes again and soon joined him, not wanting to think too hard about what he believed, for fear of losing that certainty.

 

* * *

Egon had lost all sense of time, not even knowing how long they had been unconscious initially. Without windows, there was no guessing whether it was day or night. It was hours after Ulster departed with Peter, and the only reason he knew that was because he had kept careful track of the passing minutes. Difficult not to, when every one took a subjective century to go by.

He had examined his cage quite thoroughly in that time. Every bar was firmly set, and the lock was difficult to reach, even if he had anything to pick it with. And he couldn't forget the camera lens in the corner—even if no one were present, he was almost definitely under surveillance. Escape under these conditions...not impossible, nothing was impossible when one applied the appropriate logic. But damned difficult. A shame he couldn't contact Houdini's ghost; his talents would be more useful here than Egon's vast and esoteric scholarship.

After some five hours, still a different black-clothed guard, this one with his head entirely shaved, had entered the room. He carried another silver tray, this one bearing a carton of milk and a wrapped sandwich, which he set before Egon's cage.

"Thank you," the physicist said automatically, before he could stop himself.

The guard nodded, replied, "You're welcome," just as involuntarily. Apparently, despite his profession, he had basic social conditioning. It didn't warm him to Egon, but at least the man could talk.

Nodding toward the food, he asked, "Is it safe to eat?"

The guard shrugged. "Dunno," he said, possibly even honestly. "They just told me to give to you. It probably is. Don't think they're testing you yet." He turned to leave.

"Wait," Egon stopped him. "The tests—they took my friend for them. Do you know where he is, what they're doing, if they'll bring him back—?"

Shaking his bald head, the guard told him, "Don't know, and if I did I couldn't tell you. Sorry." He might have been genuinely apologetic, or maybe it was only another social reflex. Must be polite, even to a captive in a cage—why? Prison guards were rarely so gentle to their prisoners.

But he wasn't a convict, and this man knew it. He left without speaking again, and Egon didn't try to call him back, watching the door close behind him with a slight frown. While far from compassionate, the guards didn't seem hostile. If he could at least convince one to tell him where Peter was, or more of the experiment—anything at all about his friend. Anything would be better than nothing.

Ray and Winston must be in a similar state, not having a hint of what had happened. He knew Ulster too well to hope that any clue had been left behind, and he suspected that this place was outside the city, out of range of a PKE meter. But they'd be doing all they could, and he knew better than to underestimate Ray's ingenuity, or Winston's tenacity. They'd find them eventually. Egon didn't doubt that. He only hoped it would be in time.

They hadn't had to witness what Peter had gone through—might still be going through, but he shoved that horror deep inside. It was a small mercy. Peter wouldn't have liked any of them to see; he never would want to show such vulnerability, no matter that it was not in any way his fault, no matter that Ray and Winston would never condemn him for it, any more than Egon ever would. But Egon was grateful all the same that they weren't here. It had cut him deep, to see his friend so wronged, when there was nothing he could do. It would have hurt them just as much. At least they had been spared that.

He couldn't dwell on it, not until he was in a position to change it. Concluding that Ulster had no reason to covertly drug him when he already had his subjects right where he wanted them, Egon devoured the sandwich and drank the milk in a single draught. Not nearly enough to satisfy, but it took the edge off the hunger. He wondered if Peter was getting even these basic amenities.

Less than an hour later, the lights switched off, leaving the room in total darkness. Feeling along the floor, he made his way to the pallet and laid down. It was an effort to clear his thoughts, but he stilled them enough to drift off into sleep, deep enough that all the nightmares which came didn't rouse him.

 

* * *

The room was dark, but for the single focused light glaring in his eyes. When it dimmed and the afterimages cleared, Kenneth Ulster stood before him, a traditional white lab coat covering his suit. Peter would have given a lot to have a second go at wiping that habitual sneer off his lips, but Ulster might have been a thousand miles away for all he could reach him. The restraints were hardly necessary, when rubber bands could have held him effectively. His limbs had all the resiliency of tepid water; he deserved an award for lifting his head far enough to meet the scientist's gray gaze.

"How do you feel?" Ulster inquired.

"Like...you care." His tongue was like leather, but at least it moved, and the words sounded like they came out correctly. Now if he could only be sure he spoke to a real person, and not a production of his fried mental processes—sunny side up, bacon on the side. "Go jump in a lake."

"Really, Venkman," Ulster chided, inclining his head. "I expected more creative repartee."

"Gimme a break," Peter muttered. "My brain just went through the spin cycle, what d'you want?" High time he got off it, too; hard to concentrate when the world persisted in doing loop-de-loops around him. It made his stomach queasy, but from its hollow, shrunken feeling, there wasn't anything in it to lose.

"I think you already know," the doctor answered. "I must admit, thus far your reactions have exceeded my highest expectations. It appears you have a worth to science after all." He pressed close, knowing Peter couldn't touch him. "If this experiment continues to proceed so positively, it almost might make up for you destroying Dr. Spengler."

"What did you do?" Water or not, he jerked up his arms, metal cuffs cutting into his wrists, but nothing gave. "Damn it, what'd you do to him?!"

"Nothing," Ulster said. "You're the only subject needed at the moment. I refer to your destruction of his scientific career, of everything."

Sinking back down on the chair, Peter groaned, and meant it. "Get a new song, Kenny—I didn't destroy anyone. Just ask Egon."

"Egon Spengler, I can question," Ulster spat. "But not Dr. Spengler the scientist, the _genius_ I once knew. He would have been able to look on this logically, and be horrified by the man he's become—irrational, impulsive, his brilliance only applied to a con-man's racket—"

"Give it up!" Peter blazed, finding strength in anger. "You haven't got a clue! It's no con, and our work's more valid than whatever the hell it is you're doing here! We _help_ people. Egon's genius has saved lives. It's not a racket, and you know it. You're the opposite of Egon, that's why you hate him. You're the only destroyer here. I saw her—"

"What?" Ulster leaned closer, until their faces were only a foot apart. Peter couldn't have looked away from that icy glare had he wanted to.

Which he didn't. "Your ghost," he hissed. In the morass of his memory, he couldn't recall much of the past hours—days?—but that one flash was clear. The young woman, long hair and plaintive, pleading face, begging him... "A woman, just a girl, and you killed her—"

"Just a hallucination," replied Ulster, but he lied. Peter saw it in his face, in the real fear which flickered through the scientist's gray eyes. He had encountered that look too many times to miss it or mistake it, the instinctive fright of people confronted with the reality of the supernatural. The ghost was no figment, and Ulster knew it.

"What are you afraid of, Kenny?" he jeered. "Being found a murderer, or just being proved wrong? Have you figured out why you hate me so much yet? I'll tell you, since you don't seem like a guy in touch with his feelings. You hate me because I'm Egon's friend and not yours, because I'd never bother to drag _you_ out of the lab, because I'd never care enough to 'destroy' _your_ scientific career—"

"I'm glad you're sufficiently recovered," Ulster said smoothly. "We can continue." From the pocket of the lab coat, he retrieved a hypodermic filled with a violet solution, tapped the side to dispel bubbles and removed the plastic cover from the needle.

Watching the scientist's methodical activity, a chill stole through Peter, the air suddenly cold against his skin. Just outside the bounds of memory stalked a darkness, unfathomable, unavoidable. His mouth had gone bone-dry, but he kept talking. "Don't you want to continue our conversation? I thought we were making real progress..."

"As you are well aware, I'm not Dr. Spengler," Ulster told him. "Fascinating as our interactions may be, the work takes precedence." He pushed up his subject's sleeve, wiped his arm with a sterile swab and inserted the needle in one swift motion.

Peter refused to wince at the pinch, and forced himself to watch the violet liquid pushed into his vein. When the doctor withdrew, he protested, "What, no band-aid?"

Not even having the good grace to smile, Ulster started for the door.

"Leaving so soon?" Peter asked, though the effort to speak lightly was enormous, and the blackness curled around him like a monstrous cat, invisible, nonexistent whiskers tickling his face. He swallowed back the scream rising in his throat, knew it would soon escape, but not yet, not with Ulster still here.

The scientist turned at the threshold. "Don't worry, I'll be back shortly. I wouldn't miss this." He closed the door, leaving Peter in the shadowed room, alone but for his demons.

 

* * *

Janine arrived at the firehall the next morning, as Ray and Winston were finishing their cereal. She didn't wait for more than "hello" and "welcome back" before she rounded on them for a whole catalogue of offenses, ranging from not finding Egon or Peter, to not calling her the minute they realized anything was wrong, to clearly not taking care of themselves—they had left the pizza box on the table, and the lack of dishes in the sink told her all too much about their current eating habits.

Though they were both more accustomed to witnessing their red-headed and hot-headed secretary's displays from a safe distance, Winston had been on the receiving end of her tongue-lashings a few times before. Ray, however, rarely triggered her temper, and having to deal with it now on top of everything else—Winston didn't like the open-eyed, blank look he took under her onslaught, the words washing over him like waves over a drowning man's head.

It made him uneasy enough that he braved her personal attention to interrupt, "Janine, take it easy—we're doing everything we can."

"Yeah? So what have you done?" she challenged. "What have you found?"

"Not much," he began to admit.

"A little," Ray came back to life, to Winston's relief. "We spent hours yesterday scanning. They're not in the city, unless they're shielded." Winston winced; Ray hadn't mentioned that yesterday, and not as well-versed in the equipment as their engineer, it hadn't occurred to him that the meter might not pick Peter and Egon up even if they were in the area. "The police are following other leads, but there's nothing on the Columbia campus that we could find."

Janine calmed marginally at his matter-of-fact explication. "What about this doctor you mentioned—"

"Kenneth Ulster." In the past couple days, Winston had developed a full understanding of Peter's sneer when he had spoken the name. Every syllable was bitter on Winston's palate at this point; he wondered if he could stand meeting the man.

Nodding, Janine asked, "So what's up with him?"

"We think he kidnapped them," Ray said plainly. "He was a rival in college. That's not as important as what we found yesterday, though."

"What'd you find?"

"Nothing," Winston told her.

Ray seconded, "Absolutely nothing—and that's why it's important. There's no record of Ken less than seven years old, and we looked everywhere. He hasn't published any scientific journals, he hasn't taken any professorships—he's not employed anywhere. He has no e-mail address, no real address, no telephone number. We even called the alumni office at Columbia —they know where _everyone_ is, to ask for donations. But they don't know where he is. He never got a passport, so he hasn't left the country, but nobody knows where he has gone. Seven years ago, he quit working for a New England pharmaceutical company, and he hasn't appeared since then. Until Friday, when Peter and Egon saw him."

Their secretary frowned. "Maybe he changed his name."

"Oh, definitely," Ray agreed. "But why would he do that—"

"Unless he's into something illegal?" Winston finished for him. "Maybe he became a doctor for the Mafia. I read a book—"

"Maybe he's in the whatsit, the FBI thing—the Witness Protection Program," Janine suggested.

Winston and Ray exchanged glances. In all their brainstorming yesterday, they hadn't considered that one. "That'd be tough to find out," Winston said at last. "They don't just tell you about anyone who's a protected witness."

"But if he is, then they know where he is." Janine narrowed her eyes. "If he took them, we gotta find him. There has to be a way to find out."

"Maybe the police could ask," Ray said doubtfully. "Or..."

"I bet it's on their computers," said Janine.

"Janine—" Ray's eyes went huge. "That's against the law! That's so illegal—"

"So's kidnapping!" she shot back belligerently. "And if he's hurting them, then it's worse. We're not gonna hurt anybody, except maybe Ulster, if he's done something to them. You're good with computers, and I know you know hackers who could do it without getting caught. You can find out if he's in the program, anyway. Even if he's not—the FBI might have a file on him. They've got access to all that top-secret stuff."

Ray's expression was a battle between innate honesty, equally integral curiosity, and stark fear for his friends. The look he threw Winston was a desperate plea for help with the decision.

Winston had no idea how to handle it. "Ray, m'man, I don't know. It's dangerous to poke around in that kind of thing, we could get in big trouble—or your friends could." Because Janine was right; Ray did know a fair share of amicable cyberpunks, many of whom would get a kick out of both hacking the system and helping the Ghostbusters. On the other hand... "The police might be able to get it out of them, but I don't know how long it would take, going through the proper channels..."

"Longer than Egon and Peter might have," Janine cried, saying outright what Winston had silently implied. "We don't know what he's doing to them. The faster we find him and them, the better. They've been abducted, they've been gone for a couple days, and we're worrying about this? If it were one of you guys—"

"Janine." Winston stepped between her and Ray. "Please, we have to think this over—"

"No!" she argued. "You don't need to think about it. You know. If it were Egon, you think he'd worry about it? If he didn't have a choice, he wouldn't let fines, or jail, or whatever, stop him from helping you, and I'm not about let it stop us from helping him or Peter."

_That's not the point_, he started to say. Of course the punishment doesn't matter, it's the principle. Though in this case friendship easily outweighed the principles involved, but it was Ray's choice, really, and Janine shouldn't force him to—

"Excuse me," Ray said quietly, "I need to make some calls. I can't do it myself without help, but I have to be the one on the computer, so no one else gets in trouble if they trace it." He headed upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.

Janine leaned against the kitchen table, arms folded and head canted down; Winston mirrored her position against the counter, feeling just as drained, like Ray had sucked all the energy with him as he departed. They should follow him, give him the moral support he would need, even if neither of them could provide the computer expertise.

Before they left the kitchen, however, Winston took the opportunity to grab their secretary's arm. "Janine," he said seriously, "go easy on Ray. He's— These past couple days have been rough."

"On both of you," she remarked, eyeing him sharply through her glasses.

"Both of us," he admitted with little hesitation. "We're sorry we didn't call you right away. We were hoping we'd have something by now. More than this."

"We'll get it," she said. "If you think I'm gonna let some stupid scientist from their college days screw up Egon's—or Peter's—days now, you've got another think coming."

Winston nearly smiled. "Yeah, I know, trust me. And Ulster'll know, too, pretty soon, I bet. But meantime, don't take it out on Ray. He's— You know how they are. This is doing a number on him."

"I know," Janine replied. "But don't underestimate him, Winston. I'm not taking it out on him, I'm telling him what he needs to hear. Ray knows what to do, and he knows how to handle it, but he doesn't always remember that he does. You can't let him forget. He's stronger than you think, and a lot stronger than he thinks. Once he gets going, I can't do anything, that's why I don't usually yell at him. Doesn't do any good. Now I just got him started." She noticed Winston's look, crossed her arms again. "Yeah, what?"

He shook his head, unable to suppress the smile this time. "Just thinking you sounded like Pete. Even if he doesn't usually say any of it aloud, either."

Her eyes flashed at the comparison; then she sighed, lowering her head again. "Somebody's gotta be Dr. V."

He nodded acknowledgment of that need, only half-jokingly remarked, "Now can you be Egon, too?"

Janine looked up, a flicker of pain crossing her face behind her glasses. Then she rose to the occasion. "Nobody could replace Egon! I wouldn't let anyone try."

"But we're not gonna need a replacement," Winston reminded her.

"Not for either of them," she agreed. "Thank God, because even I couldn't do everything Peter does around here. The whining alone—you'd need three more people at least."

"That'd almost cover his grocery bill," Winston solemnly agreed. "You couldn't target every woman on our busts fast enough, though."

Janine rolled her eyes. "Yeah. And I'd need to practice spreading my laundry all over your bedroom. Not to mention sleeping through the Second Coming."

"If it's before noon, anyway," answered Winston, but before he went on, he had a sudden flash of two mornings back, dragging Pete out of bed, just as they always did. It hit him like a thunderbolt that there was a chance, however small, that it had been the last time he and Ray had to put up with Peter's morning habits, the last time his friend would growl unintelligible threats at their early cheerfulness, the last time—

"Come on," Janine said, "we should go check on Ray, make sure he's not hacking into the CIA by mistake."

"That'd be a big one," he agreed, and followed her out. She had timed her interruption well, and if he had caught her looking at Peter's coffee mug on the drain board, he didn't say anything of it. But though Egon might be her professed true love, and Peter her boss and frequent opponent, Winston knew that she, as much as he and Ray, would miss them both equally, and did already, for all that she'd never admit it aloud.

 

* * *

A guard returned the next morning—Egon presumed morning arrived when the lights flickered back on, as it was the only indicator he had. He recognized the man from his pug nose and black buzz-cut; he was the first guard they had seen, who had brought Ulster the drugs. Again he had a tray, this one with a TV dinner and a can of apple juice, handed over to Egon with the complacent reticence he was coming to expect.

The guard remained standing at attention by the cell as Egon sat to eat. Between bites he inquired of him, "Do you serve the other subjects?"

No response.

"Your meal plan leaves much to be desired," Egon told him. "With whom do I register my complaints?" Curious if he could get any reaction out of the man.

That didn't do it. He needed Peter—it was nearly impossible to keep one's complacency when Peter needled. Was he trying it wherever he was now? Of course he was. If he were conscious, he'd be talking. If he were conscious. If he were sane, if he were even still—

The soggy peas turned to dust in his mouth, but he forced himself to swallow and took the final sip of juice before replacing the carton and bottle on the tray. The guard, staring down at him, proved himself capable of speech by intoning, "Get up."

"Why?" Egon asked.

In answer, the black-clothed man produced a set of keys and unlocked the cage door.

Egon scrambled to his feet, pulse suddenly racing. "Is it time? Am I needed for the experiment?"

But the guard shook his head, removing his short-muzzled gun from its holster. Egon raised his hands as the man swung the door open and curtly gestured him forward. Obediently, he walked forth.

"Where am I going, then?" Not to be released, he doubted, and not to see Peter, though the thought crossed his mind with an unavoidable flare of hope.

Outside the door was only a florescent-lit hallway, lined with the same plain gray walls as inside the room. Egon divided his attention between the passage and the armed man. His gun never wavered, always trained on the physicist's chest. Not familiar with artillery, Egon couldn't identify the weapon, but it looked dangerous and the man seemed to know how to use it. But if he were valuable to them, as implied by his treatment, then it hardly would be logical to shoot him. How far would they risk their subject? Would the guard hesitate?

The guard marched them around the corner, through a door leading to a small locker room and a bank of showers. The guard pointed to them, and Egon had a fleeting idea that they meant to kill him in the easiest place to clean. Wouldn't poison be simpler?

The guard must have noticed his expression. "Just wash up," he said flatly. "Doctors said you could use the exercise."

"Oh. Yes, of course," Egon replied, and stripped off his uniform, though not his suit underneath. While he didn't care much about modesty, he wouldn't get far naked. A plan was forming in his mind. Pocketing his glasses, he stepped up to the row of showers, turned on the water. Ducking his head under the warm stream, still holding the jumpsuit, Egon ran his other hand through his hair. "Is there any soap or shampoo?" he asked.

"No."

Hardly a surprise. Remembering Peter's comments before, he remarked, "The service here leaves much to be desired. I believe better accommodations may be found in roach motels, as well as higher quality associates..." Though Egon knew he would never match his friend's flair for a well-turned insult, he tried his best to follow the psychologist's techniques. He had learned something from over a decade's exposure, after all.

As he rambled, his hands twisted the jumpsuit into a thin rope, soaked with the water. He tried to do it as if it were only a nervous motion, just as his speech must sound, still panicked by the situation, not thinking clearly.

When Egon turned off the shower and returned his glasses to his nose, the guard was watching him with the same expression as before, the gun unmoving. His eyes were focused on his prisoner's face, and Egon went on talking, keeping his attention there as he shook himself off. "Don't suppose there's any towels, either, no, didn't think so. How about paper ones—"

As he approached, the guard pivoted to follow, taking one step back, and as he shifted his weight, Egon dropped, lunging down and to the side while he lashed out with his makeshift whip. The jumpsuit tangled around the guard's leg and yanked him off-balance on the slippery tile. He fell without an exclamation, landing hard on his back. Before he could roll upright, Egon snatched the gun from his hand and ran, sliding across the locker room floor and crashing out the door.

If he had been another foot to the side, he would have slammed into the black-clothed man waiting in the hall. As it was, he dashed past, the other guard snatching for him a moment too late. Of course, there had been two when they had taken Peter; they most likely worked in pairs, at least three of them— "Stop!" roared a commanding voice behind him, but he had nearly turned the corner, and if they hesitated that crucial moment to harm their valuable subject, he might well make it.

The guard didn't hesitate. Egon didn't hear the shot, but he felt the sting in his arm, like an insect bite, not the fiery impact he had half-expected. He dodged around the corner and grabbed his arm, felt not warm blood, but a tiny hard tube. Surprise slowed him, and then it registered, not a bullet, a dart. Of course they would have tranquilizers, he couldn't forget their area of research. Perhaps if he could make it to a closet, hide before the drug took effect—

Fast acting, no surprise there, either, and the floor tilted up and met him, walls curving inward to push him down. That hadn't worked at all, and the fact that he had tried didn't count for much.

_I'm sorry, Peter_, Egon whispered as the blackness took him, by now an all too familiar sensation. _I'll do better next time. I'm sorry..._

 

* * *

"He lives in Pelham," Ray reported that evening. He looked exhausted, eyes bloodshot from too many hours staring at a computer monitor, flexing his fingers to counteract the first twinges of carpal tunnel syndrome. But there was a kind of grim triumph in his voice as he related what he had learned. "I haven't found much more, but one of my friends pulled a file on Ken from somewhere in the FBI mainframe. Not their criminal database, I don't think, and not the Witness Protection Program, either. There wasn't much..."

"But he's living in Pelham," Winston prodded. "That's right outside the city. Does he work there?"

"I don't know." Ray shook his head. "It didn't give his profession; I don't know what he's doing. I tried the phone number, but I only got an answering machine. I think it was Ken's voice, I'm not sure."

Janine checked her watch. "It's not even six. We could go over now and see if anyone's around."

"Should we tell the police?" Ray wondered aloud. "If he's there..."

"They don't even have a warrant out for Ulster," Winston reminded him. The evidence against him was circumstantial at best; the police were doing everything they could, but a day's investigation had so far uncovered nothing even promising. Peter and Egon might as well have dropped off the face of the planet.

Winston had a hunch that some of the investigators suspected just that. It didn't do any good to mention the lack of signs of a dimensional rift. Ray had started to explain it to a detective, but the man's eyes had glazed over after the first sentence. Winston thought that despite their insistence this was not a ghostly abduction, the police were three-quarters convinced it was, anyway, and thus out of their league. Leaving the remaining Ghostbusters to handle it. Which they were.

Ray drove, a decision Winston regretted the moment they roared out of the firehall and whipped around the block. It would be a miracle if they arrived at their destination without need of a chiropractor. Ray had been cooped up for too long, and his excitement at finally having something to do brought his reckless enthusiasm behind the wheel to new heights. At least with Ecto-1's sirens, the other drivers had a chance at getting out of the way. In the back seat, Janine grimly hung onto her seatbelt and didn't comment.

Ray finally hit the brakes when they crossed the line into Pelham, and Winston released his hold on the door handle to take out the PKE meter, set for Peter's biorhythms. He activated it, but there wasn't a signal. Switching to Egon's brought no change—the needle wavered momentarily and Winston held his breath, exhaled when it sank down again. False reading. Looking over his shoulder, Janine sighed.

They slowed as they turned the corner onto a residential drive. Ray craned his neck to glimpse the street numbers, stopping before a small, elegant townhouse. "That's it. That's Ken's address."

Janine was all for storming the front door, but Winston cautioned, "If he sees us coming, he might hide, or run."

"If he's even there." Ray took the meter from Winston, adjusted it and frowned. "He's not in. There're no biorhythms in the house." Regarding the place thoughtfully, "I wonder if he even lives there. Maybe it's a cover?"

Good point, though it was surprising it had occurred to Ray first—he didn't usually think so deviously. Climbing from Ecto, Winston crossed the street and peeked inside the mailbox. Returning, he reported, "Someone's living there, anyway. There's junk mail for a Ken Smith, and a couple days' newspapers. Looks like he's been out recently."

Ray squared his jaw, obviously having the same thoughts as Winston of what was occupying Ulster's time. It might have occurred to Janine, too; at any rate, she suggested, "He's gotta get back sometime, right? One of us should wait here—"

"Surveillance, good idea," Winston said. "You can come back in your car—"

"Wait!" Janine began to protest, then realized there wasn't much choice and agreed. "All right. For Egon. But the whole night—"

"I'll spell you at around one," Winston told her. "That'll give us both a chance to sleep."

"I can take a watch," Ray offered.

"We can handle it," Janine and Winston spoke simultaneously.

"We need you to keep digging for stuff on Ulster," Winston added. And it was just as important to keep Ray busy. Simply waiting for the man, left alone with his thoughts, Ray's imagination would run wild. The main thing holding him together at this point, Winston believed, was that he hadn't had the chance to consider everything that might have happened.

If he started to conjecture all the terrible possibilities, when Ulster did return, Ray might be desperate enough by then to take him on without waiting for Winston and Janine. And Winston hadn't forgotten that "Ken Smith" bore a grudge against Ray as well. Ray wouldn't go down without a fight—but neither would Egon and Peter, and they had disappeared all the same. No, he wasn't letting Ray out of his sight, unless he was safe in bed at the firehall—and even then, Winston was tempted to ask Janine to sleep over while he took the watch. Just to be sure.

They drove Janine to her apartment, where she picked up her car and took a PKE meter. Winston pressed a proton pack on her as well; at a low setting, it could stun non-lethally, and Janine knew how to handle a thrower. Accepting the protection, she headed off.

Upon reaching the firehall, Winston and Ray were greeted by a frantic Slimer. Frightened by his return to an empty building, the green ghost soared around and over them, wailing and dousing them liberally in ectoplasm. Winston couldn't understand a word he gibbered, but, as usual, Ray had little difficulty following the babble. He grabbed the ghost with uncharacteristic force, shook him soundly until he quit shrieking and then demanded, "You didn't find them?"

"No!" Slimer twisted his shapeless head in a definite negative. "Nononono, no Peter, no Egon. Slimer looked _everywhere_, no guys!"

"You couldn't have looked everywhere," Ray replied, "but where you looked—you didn't find anything? Not even a trail? Did you find anywhere that they were? Someplace that they had been for a while and weren't now?"

"Nonono," the ghost babbled, "weren't anywhere, all gone. Ray find?" Orange eyes looked to him hopefully.

"I'm trying," Ray told him. "We haven't had any luck yet—"

"Ray can't find?" Slimer looked as if his world had been shattered. "Peter and Egon _all_ gone?"

"No, spud," Winston said.

Ray shook his head. "We're looking for them, we just haven't—"

"Ray can't find?" Slimer repeated, in the betrayed whine he adopted when denied a treat. "Slimer miss Peter—Slimer miss Egon—"

"I can't find them!" shouted Ray, so loudly that the ghost screeched and backpedaled, flattening against the wall with a piteous moan. Usually the most patient and considerate of their pet, Ray didn't even see the display, whirling and dashing upstairs with his hands over his face.

"Ray mad?" Slimer whimpered in his wake.

Winston, one foot on the stairs to follow his friend, turned back. "No," he said. He couldn't blame Slimer. The ghost didn't understand, but it wasn't his fault; he couldn't help what he was and what was beyond his comprehension. All Winston could do was try to explain. "Ray misses Peter and Egon, too, Slimer. He's trying as hard as he can to find them—you tried, too, right?"

Slimer nodded, so vigorously his entire body bobbed up and down.

"And you're sad you didn't find them." The ghost confirmed this. "Well, Ray's sad, too. Only he's been looking even longer than you have, so he's even sadder. You understand?"

After brief hesitation, Slimer nodded again. "Cheer Ray up?" he burbled softly.

"Maybe later, not right now," Winston told him. "Why don't you try looking for them again? That'll make Ray happy, if you can find them—and we'll be very proud of you."

"Okay!" agreed the ghost, drawing his shapeless mass up with an approximation of a salute.

Before he could dive through the wall, Winston stopped him. "Slimer, if you find them, come back and tell us right away. Don't visit—Ray will be happier if you tell him as soon as you can. If you do, you can have anything you want in the refrigerator." Which was still fairly well-stocked; a little bribery never hurt when dealing with Slimer. Winston didn't want Ulster to see the green ghost fussing over Egon and Peter. The guy sounded sharp, and if he had heard of their mascot...

Once it was clear the ghost understood, Winston headed upstairs. Ray was seated at the computer again, hands in his lap, staring at the monitor. He didn't look up when Winston entered, and though tears glittered in the corners of his eyes, none had fallen.

"The spud didn't mean it," Winston said quietly.

"I know," Ray replied.

"We're doing okay. You're doing great," he told his friend. "You tracked Ulster down."

"I know," Ray repeated.

"Pete's gonna be proud of you," Winston said. "Egon, too—though maybe you shouldn't tell him about the whole FBI thing right away."

Ray didn't say anything. Winston leaned on the desk beside his chair, facing him, and wishing Peter were here. The psychologist could tease any of them out of whatever moods they'd get into. But Pete wasn't around, and he was, and Ray needed someone.

"You know, Pete and Egon, if they're together—they're probably in better shape than we are. You know them—if Pete hasn't gone and killed Egon for being too logical or something, then they can handle whatever Ulster throws at them. They're on their own, they need our help, but it hasn't been that long, and they know we're coming..." He trailed off, uncertain of where he was going with this, or whether Ray was even listening.

Then Ray smiled, only a little, but Winston saw it and grinned with open relief. "That's it. Can you imagine what our good Doctor Venkman would think if he knew you were giving up on him?"

"I'm not—" Ray shook his head, then smiled a bit wider and admitted, "Yeah, and Egon wouldn't like it very much, either."

"You can't blame them. If it were us, homeboy, and they were the ones looking—"

"I wish it were us," Ray murmured, then his eyes widened. "I mean, I wish it were me, not you, Winston—"

"S'okay, homeboy, because I wish it were me, too." Winston sighed. "They have the easy part. At least they know what's happening to them."

But even as he spoke, he felt the shiver course up his spine, and a voice in his mind murmured that there were worse things than ignorance. And he had to fight back the feeling that Egon and Peter might have a good idea what they were.

 

* * *

Egon's first action upon awaking was to look into the cage opposite his own. He squinted until his blurred vision came into focus. Empty, despite his hopes. Wearily, he pushed himself up into a kneel, put his hands on his knees and waited for the dizziness to pass.

The door opened and he turned his head sharply enough to set the room spinning again. When it settled, he saw Ulster approaching, carrying a water bottle. He handed it to his prisoner through the bars.

"Here. You won't be feeling like food now, but we can't have you dehydrated."

_We._ Not for the first time it crossed Egon's mind that Ulster most likely wasn't running this operation on his own. He had support, either government or private, and he had the guards, but even if he were the director, it was unlikely he was the only scientist. The guard before had said something about 'doctors,' plural. How many corrupt scientists were involved in this project?

Accepting the water, he unscrewed the cap and gulped it down, hardly caring if it were drugged. It was warm, but pure, and he drank half the bottle in one draught, soothing his throat if not his thoughts.

When he lowered it, Ulster was watching him with the same supercilious sneer as before, as if he found any sign of Egon's humanity amusing, rather than evoking compassion for his fellow man.

"You're quite the action hero, Spengler," he remarked. "Maybe you should look into a career in television. The guards were impressed with your little stunt. They didn't think you had it in you. Brains over brawn, you know."

"I prefer to use my mind," Egon returned. The longer Ulster spoke with him, the greater the chance he might let something slip about Peter. "But I'll employ whatever assets I have."

"I would have thought you would come up with a better plan than that," Ulster said. "Something more creative than knocking down a guard and running. It was a risk; you couldn't have known they were using darts, not bullets. If his partner outside the door had been trigger-happy—"

"I estimated the probabilities were against it. It's clear that I am worth something to you." And he nodded significantly at the water bottle. "I should have counted on the tranquilizer darts, but I admit my thought processes are not at their most efficient."

"And why would that be?" Ulster almost purred.

Egon narrowed his eyes up at the other man, knowing full well what he was waiting to hear. "I have been imprisoned for several days. I have been drugged, and fed only intermittently. I have been confined, alone without any activities, for long periods of time. None of this is conducive to logical thinking." And there was little purpose in denying the answer he wanted, as it was entirely honest. "And I am very concerned for my friend, which is a distraction you wouldn't understand, except perhaps on an intellectual level."

Ulster's smile, which had widened at the beginning of his admission, turned upside down at that final cut. "Not even there; I'm no psychologist. I never understood what you saw in that man, Spengler. The one flaw in your rationality, and it's widened now, I see. Why you would willingly choose to stay with them—was it the fame? I can see why you'd be interested in studying ghosts, you always were a little on the edge, but how'd Stantz push you over? You're not just studying the supernatural, you're fighting it, like any mindless soldier. You strap on those packs and chase specters around the city, or pretend to—"

"The ghosts are real," Egon told him firmly.

"So you say." Ulster licked his lips and Egon noted the nervous gesture. Fear? That didn't make sense, but he filed the reaction in memory for future thought. "I've never—I've never seen a ghost myself, but I'm almost willing to take your word that they're real. That's how much I trust your science, Spengler, even after everything."

"Even after I've admitted to not thinking clearly?" Egon inquired. "Even after I've admitted to being human? Even after I admitted that I care about something beyond science, that I care about a friend? Maybe you're learning, Kenneth. It's a pity it takes something like this," he gestured at the bars around him, "to start to show you what else there might be—"

"There's more to life than science," Ulster said. "I've always known that. The unfortunate aspect of this is that so few understand how important science is. How important truth is. You understood it well enough before, that for your sake I'm willing to entertain the possibility that your ghosts are real, and not a hoax perpetuated by your coworkers. I wouldn't put it past them. But you—you valued truth. You valued discovery and study and knowledge."

"I valued more than that," Egon spat. "Enough to think that pure science isn't as important as those it may help—or hurt. What have you done to Peter? Where is he now? How far along is your experiment—?"

"I thought you might get to this," Ulster sighed. "I hoped otherwise. We were having a hypothetical argument, Spengler, which is clearer in the abstract; why make it personal?"

"Because that's what matters to me," Egon told him. "You want me to say it outright? Fine. I care about my friend more than about my science, or my logic, or anything else you so highly prize in me. I don't give a damn whether you think I'm foolish, or stupid, or what potential you feel I'm failing to live up to. Quite frankly, Kenny, your opinion matters less to me than that of any ghost we've ever captured, and I couldn't care less if your experiment wins you the Nobel Prize or damns you to Hell. I care about what you've done to Peter, what you might be doing to him now. If I didn't seem to be thinking clearly when I tried to escape, if I took unaccountable risks, it's because I decided it didn't matter how low the odds were, or how dangerous it might be, I had to try, no matter how illogical or unscientific my attempt. I don't regret the attempt—"

"You only regret that it failed," Ulster completed his sentence with a sneer. "You have become a man of action, haven't you? You were better as a scientist—you were a better scientist. This bravado doesn't suit you. But I'll tell the guards to be more careful."

Ulster shook his head with assumed rue. "It's rather ironic. I fully expected you to be the more willing subject. I even thought your scientific curiosity might win out over your emotionality. But as it turns out, Venkman is far less resistant to the experiments. He hasn't even tried to escape." After a momentary pause, the doctor concluded, "Of course, that's most likely because he's been unconscious or restrained since we—"

He didn't finish. Egon wasn't aware of moving, but suddenly he was on his feet, thrusting his hands through the bars at the other scientist. His fingertips brushed the man's collar as Ulster cringed back, mouth dropping and eyebrows shooting up in momentarily shock.

Then he straightened, smoothed his jacket and assumed a coolly contemptuous mien. "Really, Dr. Spengler, this doesn't become you," he dryly remarked, though his voice shook slightly.

Egon took a breath, drawing his arms back into his cage and absently rubbing his shoulder where he had banged the bars in his lunge. "Go to hell," he said, perfectly calmly, and was pleased that his own voice didn't crack. Not conducive to further dialogue, but clich or no, it helped him contain that emotionality Ulster found so repellent. Illogical, perhaps, but Egon was at a place very far from logic now. His anger didn't surprise him, nor the force of it. It had taken him off-guard, and it certainly had startled Ulster, but after what he had seen done to Peter, and what he knew his friend was yet enduring... No, the only surprise was that he could control it at all.

Maybe Ulster saw something of that in his eyes, the slightest hint of that rage, and even if he didn't understand, it was enough to make him take an involuntary step back, further out of range. Then his lip curled, as if he detested his own instinctive response, and he announced, "I came here with a specific purpose, and I've made my decision. You will be our secondary subject in this experiment, and your role is coming."

Egon crossed his arms, calmly replied, "I thought that was always your intention."

"I was considering finding another," Ulster told him. "If you were still at all what you used to be, if there were a chance you could be a scientist yet. But you're beyond that hope. Your only use to science is as a subject. Venkman's almost ready. We'll need you soon enough."

Observing his subject's reaction to that pronouncement, the scientist departed with a satisfied sneer, misreading his expression as apprehension, rather than anticipation. Egon understood that the experiment, whatever it might be, was not something he would volunteer for. But Venkman needed to be ready for it—he would be that much closer to his friend. _I'm coming, Peter_. Not how he had hoped, and the circumstances were far from ideal, but any chance was better than none, infinitely better. And there was a logic to that calculation which Ulster would never understand.

 

* * *

Distracted or not, most of Egon's suppositions were correct, including his theorizing about the number of scientists involved. In the office above Chamber 1, Kenneth Ulster's two colleagues watched his interaction with their current Subject Beta. Ulster of course was aware of their observation, but he was in no way privy to their discussion while they monitored.

"I don't like it," the man said flatly.

"You don't like any of it," the woman replied, equally levelly. Her voice rarely rose or fell from that monotone. She was a neuropsychologist, a rising star in her field when they had tapped her, and she enjoyed her work here with a passionless pleasure. The loosened ethical guidelines in the name of higher causes allowed her to carry out studies denied to her by more conventional facilities. But now she was nearly frowning, thin lips drawn tight as she watched the screen with opaque black eyes. "However, in this case I share your dislike. He's not behaving normally."

"Normal being highly relative," the doctor muttered. Of the three of them, he held the only medical doctorate. As to why he was here, it was a question he had begun asking of himself with increasing frequency of late. The current situation was not helping answer it. His skills were often needed, but the circumstances in which he practiced them too often left him uneasy or worse. It was rare for either of his colleagues to share his feelings, though, and he latched onto this quickly now. "He's always been sadistic—"

"He's dedicated to the work," she defended the biochemist with the rote arguments.

The doctor ignored them. "He's dedicated, all right, and a brilliant scientist, but he's a sadist. He watches when he doesn't have to, and he designs the experiments to produce the maximum pain as well as test hypotheses. But now—I've never seen him have so much contact with the subjects, both of them. He's not leaving them alone. He's been sleeping here, to spend as much time with them as possible, as long as they have." Which wasn't much longer. Subject A had proved well-chosen; his reactions were unusual but ideal. That didn't excuse their colleague, however. "And he's been addressing them by name—you heard him now. We've listened to him do it, with both of them."

"This is personal for him," she stated, agreeing with his assessment. The softness of her tone implied how great a crime that was. Especially because of where it had led him. "More than that, he has endangered the project."

Which had been their concern all along, since they had first caught a glimpse of their subjects. "Do you think it's that serious?" he asked, idly tapping long fingers against his coffee mug. "It's a mistake, a big one, but we're well-hidden..."

"A hiding place is best when no one is seeking it," she replied curtly. "We've always selected subjects who won't be missed. Usually we rely on our employers to supply us; in this case we needed to find our own, but he could have chosen better."

It had been logical to send the biochemist when he had volunteered; at any rate, the doctor had agreed to it eagerly. He himself had but one experience 'selecting' a subject, and her face still haunted his dreams. Only a street girl, she hadn't been expecting anything more than a rough night. Instead he had brought her here, placed her in Ulster's hands, under his needle... The doctor had had to leave, unable to even watch over the monitors, but he clearly remembered the first of her screams. Ulster had given her too much for the first dose, but it had taken her a long time to die, and the biochemist had insisted on observing the entire process.

The doctor had learned a little in the few years since, but late at night, if he were working alone, he would still sometimes hear her cries. And he refused to bring any more innocents to this place. Experimenting on convicted felons, murderers and rapists, that was one thing. But people who had done nothing more than be in the wrong place at the wrong time...

Not true of these two men. They had done something—nothing wrong in the eyes of the people, though. They were popular, they were heroes. Even if they hadn't been in uniform when Ulster had brought them in, the doctor could have recognized their faces from the news and the papers.

The neurologist had been as angry as he had ever seen her, a cold, suppressed fury, found only in her smoldering eyes and the tightness of her speech. She had said nothing to Ulster, only taken a scalpel and cut the badges from the jumpsuits of the unconscious men. The doctor suspected that the guards had identified them regardless, especially those present when the biochemist called them by name. If any of them chose to talk...

No matter how ideal Subject Alpha might be for this experiment, that hardly excused the risk their colleague had taken in selecting them. Combined with his frequent interactions with them, there was only the one conclusion. Ulster had personal reasons for his selection, something obvious when one listened to them. The only question was, what had the Ghostbusters done to deserve his personal attention?

The doctor's eyes fell on the monitor of Test Room 2. Subject Alpha was somewhere between sleep and oblivion, the most peace he had had in two days. Given Ulster's results, the third and final test would be tomorrow, so tonight he could rest. The doctor would have to examine him to ascertain his physical readiness, but the man was in excellent shape, considering, and he had the necessary endurance. All he'd need was a sedative tonight to hold off withdrawal, before his dosing tomorrow.

Were it not for the chemical imbalance, he wouldn't even require sedating. He slept now like the dead, exhausted by his ordeal. The doctor frowned at his motionless figure, queried aloud, "I wonder what he did to him?"

Interrupted from her own thoughts, the other scientist made an inquiring murmur. The doctor gestured to the monitor. "Subject Alpha. Whatever they did to our colleague, he dislikes them both for it—but he hates Alpha. That's why he chose him for the main series. It wasn't just because he's more suited to it; he picked Subject Alpha because he wanted to hurt him." Not as if Beta's experience would be any better in the end, but the first subject's suffering lasted longer.

She made a noncommittal noise. "Possibly. We've acknowledged he's taking this experiment to a personal level. How doesn't matter. What we do about it does, especially as he is endangering the work."

He regarded her thoughtfully. "That's the second time you've said that. Just because people will be looking for them doesn't mean they'll find us."

"I received a report today," she announced. "One of Ulster's main files was downloaded."

He started at that, both at the content of the report and her use of his name, here where names weren't spoken aloud, and never their real ones. "Does he know?"

She shook her head. "I haven't told him. We're to handle this at our own discretion. I take that to include whatever steps are necessary to preserve our positions."

"But not Ulster's," he added without regret.

"We'll do nothing about him directly, one way or another," she decided. "Neither will we tell him anything, lies or the truth. For now we will continue with the experiment as planned. It's possible nothing will come of it, but we must take some precautions. It would be best if we could avoid the police and other searches altogether."

"Agreed, but do you have any idea on how to go about that?" he said skeptically. "These men are famous, around here, at least. And they have two co-workers who must be searching for them." While he knew little of the Ghostbusters, that assumption was based on what he had observed first-hand of their two subjects. If the two at large had one-tenth the loyalty to their teammates that these two had to each other, then they would keep looking for their missing members until they found their bodies. "It's likely they've already tracked Ulster. We'd have to stop them—"

"Precisely," she nodded, checking the monitors. "Ulster will be in the lab for half an hour at least. That should give us enough time."

"Enough time for what?" he demanded.

"It's quite simple," she said, and popping a blank cassette into one of the recorders, she began to explain. The doctor had to admit that it sounded feasible, though he was surprised that she had come up with something so personal herself. Her interest in neurology outweighed her interest in psychology, but she was trained and knowledgeable in both, and proved it with these occasional flashes of insight.

She didn't admit the gamble they were taking, though he understood it. If it worked, they would be safe. If it didn't, they might well be hammering another nail into their coffins. But that didn't matter much. At this point, should they be revealed, there were more than enough nails scattered about to bury them all.

 

* * *

Egon was awakened by the lights humming to life around him. Blinking up at them, he rolled off his pallet and into a crouch, shrugging off the soreness of his limbs and shaking his head to clear it. Shortly a guard entered with the requisite tray. Egon recognized his smooth-shaven skull if not the fresh black eye; this man had brought his first meal, perhaps two days ago. Handing over the food with a slight frown, the guard advised, "Eat up. You're going for a ride."

Egon stiffened as he reached for the bowl, demanded, "Where?"

The guard shrugged. "Elsewhere. I'm to take you to the van after this. Will you be any trouble, or should I handcuff you?"

"I won't resist," Egon answered honestly, as the question seemed in earnest. "Am I taking part in the next phase of the experiment?"

"You'll find out," though the guard's expression indicated Egon would be happier not knowing.

He ate his sandwich and soup in silence—the last meal of a condemned man?—and stood when he was done. Gun in hand, the guard opened the cage and gestured him out and toward the door, keeping a careful distance. Egon went quietly. As promised, he had no plans to put up a fight, not until he learned more about the experiment, anyway. As they walked down the hall, he did take the opportunity to inquire about the recent addition to the man's face. "How did you injure yourself?"

The guard automatically reached his other hand up to his black eye, wincing when his fingers brushed the bruise. "You'll find out," he said again. After a few more steps, he admitted, "It was the other subject. We had to restrain him yesterday."

Egon felt his pulse start to race. No need to touch his wrist; he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. So Ulster had lied. Of course Peter wouldn't be so acquiescent. "He was trying to escape?"

But the guard shook his head. "Not exactly, though he's one up on you. You got one of us sent home with that trick in the shower; your friend sent my partner to the emergency room." He didn't seem angry about it; more impressed, rather.

Peter always had been the superior fighter. Even when he wasn't expected to fight back, he managed all the same. Egon could have laughed out loud, not with humor, but sheer relief. He knew he couldn't take this at face value; the guard had denied that Peter had been trying to escape. More likely he had been grappling with demons in his imagination. But he was fighting them.

Although he had turned away, the guard must have noticed his expression, or read his determination in the set of his shoulders. At any rate, he told the prisoner, "It's not going to help you."

Egon looked back. The guard gestured him to keep walking as he asked, "What do you mean?"

The guard sighed. "You don't seem the bad sort, not like we usually deal with, but you've got something in mind. Doesn't matter—whatever you're planning, I've seen how this experiment is going. I'm not one of the scientists, and I don't know all the details or anything, but I know the basics. It's worse than you think. A lot worse. And whatever you're gonna do, it doesn't matter, because you're coming back dead." He shook his smooth pate regretfully. "I'm sorry, man. I'm sorry."

 

* * *

Winston returned to the firehall at six a.m. sharp. He called Janine over beforehand to replace him; Ulster had yet to appear, but the hope remained. If only they found him...

If it even were him. Three days now, and no ransom demands, no threats, no trace of their friends. Maybe they had dropped off the planet after all. Maybe they were trapped in another universe, or another world—better that than the alternatives.

There were no pressing busts; they had put off all calls until the next week, but that made it even worse. Not working only highlighted how much more went into this team than the job. Less than a week and already he missed them, beyond the simple fear of what might have happened to them. He missed playing chess with Egon, or the three of them ganging up on Peter about the dishes. They acted like kids sometimes, as mature as ten-year-olds, and he enjoyed it. Strange as it was, oddball scientists his friends all were, yet he was more comfortable with them, had more fun with them than he had with anyone outside of his own family. They felt like family, his three extra brothers, and sister Janine, giving as good as she got, or better.

And to Ray, they were family, the one he had lost as a kid when his parents died. Not just a substitute but the real thing, in everything but blood. Ray had known Peter and Egon for nearly half his life; they were part of him. If that was over...

The occultist was already up when he got back. Winston found him in his pajamas in the living room, staring at the television's blue screen, the VCR remote in hand.

"Good morning. Ray?"

Still watching the TV, Ray said quietly, "Something came this morning. I got up right after Janine left and found it."

"Found what? What do you mean, something came?"

"Somebody left it in our mailbox," Ray explained evenly. "I don't know when they dropped it off. Last night, maybe. There wasn't any address."

"Is this it?" Winston spotted the package on the television, an unlabeled manila envelope, and on top of it an empty video cassette box. Taped to the box was a white sheet of paper, neatly folded. He spread it open, scanned the small black words: _Your missing colleagues will be returned at a future date. Do not go to the police, offer a reward, or attempt to find them by any other means._

He threw down the box and the message. "What the hell? Is this a joke, or—" Ray hadn't moved, or looked at Winston once. "Ray," he calmed his voice with effort, "Ray, what's on the tape? Have you watched it?"

Ray nodded. Without a word, he raised the remote and hit play.

The image that glowed onscreen was black and white; it took Winston a few seconds to make sense of the varying patches of gray. Once his eyes and mind adjusted, the grainy pixels resolved into an image, a dark room, spotlit in the center. Under the circle of light was the figure of a man, supine on a large chair like a dentist's, metal-framed and utilitarian. There might have been restraints on the armrests, but the man's hands draped over them limply. His head tilted to the side, face partly obscured by shadow, eyes closed. The angle of his neck and the arrangement of his body suggested deepest sleep, total fatigue or a drugged unconsciousness.

It was his posture that fooled Winston. Unfamiliar, that utter surrender to exhaustion, the way he lay so quiet. As if he were incapable of moving, though his position might be uncomfortable; as if he had given up all hope, not caring where he was or what might happen to him. Reading a lot into one image, but there was something both terrible and pathetic in the man's stillness. Not death; the slightest twitch of his limbs proved him alive. Yet his repose seemed somehow worse than death, more unnatural, defeated and beaten, not in body but in spirit.

Then his head shifted toward the light, hair falling from the brow, and even in colorless pixels, even slack and unconscious, there was no mistaking those features. Looking closer, he recognized the figure's clothing as well, the dark jumpsuit.

"Oh God," Winston breathed, reaching forward as if he could touch the man through the glass tube. "Peter—"

A voice, digitally masked, tinny and loud through the television's speaker, sounded across the room. Winston nearly jumped; Ray didn't react, but he had seen this before—alone. Winston shuddered at that, then attended to the video.

"Dr. Venkman," repeated the voice, monotone and synthesized to be unrecognizable, inhuman. "Dr. Venkman, respond if you hear this."

Perhaps he was reacting to his name, or perhaps to the unspoken threat in the voice, but the image of Peter rolled his head to the side and back again, as if denying the command. The action was so clearly an effort that Winston found himself holding his breath, fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms. For all his assumed laziness, Peter never moved like that. He was a restless sleeper, and though he might sleep in whenever he could manage it, Winston had never seen him drained like this, no sign of the energy which usually drove him.

"Respond if you hear this," the voice said again, impatiently. "Do you know where you are?"

"Demons..." His eyes remained closed as the word was forced from his lips, a whisper, but intelligible, and definitely Peter's. Winston glanced at Ray, understanding why he had raised the volume, the better to hear the low mumble. The occultist's eyes remained fixed on the screen as Peter continued, "Came for me...in the shadows...couldn't run from the spiders... I fell into them..." There was a note Winston hardly could identify in his friend's tone, terror, a paralyzing fear, not something he had heard much from any of his teammates. They weren't afraid to run, but they were no cowards. But Peter's whisper quavered now, "Couldn't fight... too many demons...tried to fight them...I tried...too big...must have been a thousand feet tall..."

"Do you know what has happened to you?" asked the voice, cutting off the disjointed rambling.

The interruption seemed to penetrate. Peter shifted in his seat, straightened his back trying to draw himself up. His voice was louder when he spoke, slurred but steadier. "Know it's all...not there. Kenny's fault. Ulster put 'em there. Gave me..." He trailed off uncertainly, sagging back against the hard chair.

So it was Ulster—they were on the right track. Though why he would allow Peter to tell them... Again, Winston looked to Ray, wondering how he was taking this proof. Despite everything they had done, he knew that part of Ray wanted to believe in Ulster's innocence, wanted to believe that no one he had personally known could do something like this. But there was no betrayal on his friend's face now, only intense attention, his mouth set in a grim line and his usually open hazel eyes dark and opaque.

On the video, Peter struggled to make sense, his confusion painful to watch, nerve-wracking when you knew Pete, knew how clear-minded he was for all his antics. This wasn't just exhaustion; he sounded half-delirious, and between his blurred speech and his lethargy, Winston guessed he was on something pretty heavy, a tranquilizer to keep him quiet, probably. Knowing how Peter detested the side effects of simple cold medicine, he must be hating this—if he even were aware of why his mind was so muddled.

"How long have you been here so far?" the voice demanded, and Winston bit his tongue to keep himself from impotently protesting aloud. Coldly unsympathetic, the speaker was, but lacking the icy inflection of the dead. Though the voice was electronically obscured, those words belonged to a living human. Winston longed to shut their mouth, permanently, if necessary.

Peter frowned, thinking as hard as he was capable, a line forming between his brows as he concentrated on his distorted thoughts. "Few days," he finally muttered, "few days ago he took us—" Suddenly his head twisted to the side and he arched his back, arms jerking as he tried to rise. "Took Egon—where's Egon? Haven't—haven't seen him since...shadows got me..."

"Dr. Spengler is elsewhere, and unharmed," the voice told him, and Peter relaxed, collapsing like an unstrung marionette. Darkly, Winston wondered how the speaker defined "unharmed"; would Pete qualify? He didn't seem to be physically injured from what they could see, but the state of his mind, his panic, the darkness under his eyes—he was a damned sight distant from "unharmed" in Winston's book.

But at least Egon was alive, according to the voice, anyway, and it sounded like he had been with Peter for a time. Before the shadows got him...?

"And how long will you be here?" the voice asked, tauntingly, Winston thought, or maybe he was reading that into the monotone words, but there was cruelty in the question regardless.

"How the hell...should I know?" Peter muttered, indistinctly, but his tone was the closest yet to his true self's. Though his eyes stayed closed and his body was limp on the chair, he sounded closer to lucidity, mentally combating whatever he had been given. "You keep askin' questions...why're you buggin' me? Haven't cared before." Again he grimaced, trying to puzzle it out. "Ulster comes in, laughs at me, bastard. Doesn't ask anything, though. Gonna get him...we were gonna help him, an' it was all a trap. All along. Wish Egon had gotten 'way ...Kenny got us good, took Egon's meter, took my pack or I'd've blasted 'im." He drew a quick breath. "Wish I had my pack when the demons came, could've taken 'em..."

Abruptly, he squeezed his eyes shut, twisted his head against the chair back and mumbled, "No...not real—evr'where, but not out here, only...only in my...son of a bitch..." The clarity in his voice was fading, the effort having taken his final reserves. While he continued to murmur under his breath, the words were too quiet and indistinct to understand.

As if annoyed by this, the attendant voice piercingly inquired, "Do you know when this will be over?"

Peter paused, assimilating the query. "When they come an' get us," he answered at last.

"Who? Who will come?"

"Ray an' Winston, an' Janine, 'cause they're lookin', ask Egon, he knows, they're lookin' an' they're gonna find us." For all its wavering weariness, there was confidence in his voice; certainty in the simple statement, for all the unsteadiness of his thoughts.

For the first time, Ray looked away, turning his head from the screen. Opening his mouth to call him on it, Winston was checked by the voice addressing Peter. Ray turned back as it said, "They won't find you, and if they try, they endanger themselves as well as you and Dr. Spengler."

At that, Peter lifted his head, his eyes cracking open, dark glittering slits beneath the lashes. "Hurt them," he said clearly, enunciating each syllable with effort, "hurt any of them, and I will kill you." He couldn't even raise his fists, but the threat in his voice was real, and dangerous.

His interrogator must have felt it, because an uneasy silence stretched on for a minute after he spoke. Peter's head rocked back against the chair, lids sliding shut. Surrounded by darkness, motionless under the harsh light, he looked helpless in a way Winston had never seen in him before, completely subject to the whim of his captors. And for all his bravado he was alone, more alone than any man should ever be. None of that fit the Peter he knew, not his brash, sociable teammate, not his outspoken, irrepressible friend. The Peter Venkman he knew belonged at parties and on busts, chasing women or saving their asses. He wasn't supposed to be trapped in a black room, so far under he hardly grasped where he was or what his tormentors were doing. No one should endure that—but a friend...

When the voice sounded again, Peter didn't stir. It went on regardless, "You will not be found. If your associates seek you, you will be moved. If they do not, you may be returned."

The screen went dark.

Ray clicked the remote, stopping the video and returning to the blank blue screen. Winston blinked, pulling himself from the false reality of the television, though its images remained before his eyes.

The whir of the tape rewinding was the only sound until Ray broke the stillness, his voice quietly emotionless. "I fast-forwarded to the end. It's blank after that."

Winston nodded, had to clear his throat before words would come. "You know, we can't listen to it. They don't even promise they'll be returned—"

Ray nodded. "We can't tell the police, though. They might find out..."

And if the abductors did, they might retaliate as threatened. It wasn't worth the risk.

"Maybe we shouldn't tell Janine, either," he remarked. "I don't know if she'd—"

The VCR clicked as it reached the end of the tape, and Ray hit play. The image of the room glowed to gray life, Peter in the center. Winston made a grab for the remote, missed. "What are you doing?"

Ray's face was pale, but his eyes never moved from the television.

"Ray, you don't need to—"

"Yes, I do." Ray swallowed. "He might—there might be a clue, he might have said something, given us an idea of where he is..."

Possible, Winston conceded, but not especially probable. "Ray, I don't..." They didn't have any other options to try, did they? And he doubted he could wrestle the remote away from his friend. Ray's knuckles were bleached as they gripped the device; Winston hoped he wouldn't crack its case.

On the video, the voice asked its first question and Peter's image responded as best he could. Ray focused like one in a trance, straining to make out every mumbled word. Touching his arm, Winston tried to gain his attention, stating practically, "You won't get much out of that. Whenever they recorded this, he was pretty drugged up at the time. I don't think he knew he was on camera..." Much less that they'd view the recording. Normally, Peter was clever enough at reading people and grasping situations that he might have guessed, might well have tried to give them a message. But in this...

A sudden hope crossed him mind. "Hey, you don't think Pete's playing it up, do you? Pretending to be farther gone than he is?" It didn't look that way, but the psychologist was a talented actor; he could put on a good show when motivated.

"He's not," Ray said flatly. "I'd know." Which was true. While sometimes Peter's displays could fool Ray, especially when they were performed to get out of work or other obligations, it was mostly a game between them. They had known each other for long enough to know automatically when the other was lying, or covering something. Winston could pick up most of the signs as well. And there were none here.

Yet still Ray listened intently, seeking meaning, clues, hope, in their friend's rambling phrases, mouthing them after him. He paused the tape after a moment, freezing Peter with his lips parted, the grainy picture distorted further by the lines of interference.

Winston forced his eyes from that disconcerting image, asked, "Why'd they do this? No ransom, just this tape—why? What the hell are they doing to Pete, and Egon?" He enjoyed reading mysteries, and occasionally tackling them in real life, but not when they involved people he cared about. And this didn't make sense no matter how he looked at it.

Unless Ulster was simply out to wreak as much damage as he could. Doing a damn good job of it, too, Winston thought with a rage so hot his vision went blood-red, almost obscuring Ray's pale face.

If Ray noticed his friend's expression or even registered his words, he didn't comment. "He keeps talking about demons," he mused. "Do you think— We didn't get any readings, but maybe Ulster's been in contact with the supernatural. Maybe that's how he got Peter and Egon, he had a demon go after them—maybe that's why they had the pack."

"Even if the demon were gone, wouldn't you find some kind of trace?" Winston asked. "Demons are usually class sevens, right? The meter goes crazy whenever you get it near wherever they've been. If Ulster had brought a demon to your speech, wouldn't you have detected it?"

Ray's face fell even further. He hit play and advanced the tape a few more seconds, paused it again. "Peter saw something," he insisted softly. "He keeps talking about it."

Averting his eyes from the television, Winston considered everything Peter had said, putting the inchoate phrases together and coming to a conclusion. One he didn't like at all, and yet it made too much sense. "Yeah, he saw something, but it wasn't there. Whatever they've been giving him—maybe it wasn't just a tranquilizer, or maybe Pete's reacting bad to it. I think he's hallucinating. I've seen a guy on acid, and he sounded—"

He didn't go on. Ray had turned white as paper, the full circles of his irises showing in his eyes. "Hey—" But before Winston could get any further, Ray dropped the remote, clapped a hand over his mouth and bolted from the room.

Shoving himself to his feet, Winston hurried after, following him to the bathroom, not hesitating to enter when he heard the choking heaves inside. Ray was crouched over the toilet. Winston put an arm on his shoulders, supporting him while he lost the meager contents of his stomach.

When the retching ended, Winston gently pushed him to sit on the floor, wet a washcloth and handed it to him, then filled a glass of water. Ray's expression was wan, but empty, as he leaned against the cool porcelain, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. Kneeling beside him, Winston took the washcloth from his limp fingers, mopped off his face and gave him the glass.

"Here, get the taste out of your mouth."

Obediently, Ray gargled and spat the water out, drank the rest. Winston nodded approval before speaking, carefully mild, "Okay, can you talk about it?"

Wrapping both hands around the glass, Ray nodded, keeping his head lowered.

Winston grasped his arm. "Good, homeboy. You scared me there." He had expected something, but that violent a reaction— "You didn't guess?"

Still looking down, Ray shook his auburn head, mumbled, "No. I thought a demon— I didn't think of it. But you're right. Peter doesn't— He's not scared of demons. Not like that."

"Nightmares, though..." They had all had their fair share of them; these past nights Winston had had more than a few, and he knew Ray's sleep had been haunted as well. But Peter could handle bad dreams. "He was way out of it, Ray, that's why he sounded so freaked. He knows he's hallucinating—"

Ray wasn't listening. "I wonder if Ulster knew..."

"What?" When Ray wasn't immediately forthcoming Winston nudged him. "What could he know?"

Shuddering, Ray wrapped his arms around his knees, lifted his chin to stare ahead at the bathroom door. "Peter did...an experiment. A while ago, when he was working on his psychology dissertation. I think it was after Ulster left Columbia, but I don't remember. Peter was studying lucid dreaming, and he wanted, he was curious about the effects of drugs."

"He tried a hallucinogen?" Winston asked. He couldn't quite see Peter pulling something like that now, with his aversion to any drugs other than alcohol, but then...

Ray nodded confirmation. "It wasn't anything major, some kind of sedative, I think. He got a prescription from a doctor he knew, and he asked me to observe, take notes, write down what he described." Ray ducked his head. "He didn't want Egon to know what he was trying, and I was the only other guy he trusted. In case something went wrong."

And something had, evident in Ray's stoic tone now, distancing himself from the past.

"Yeah, so what happened?" Winston prodded.

"It wasn't supposed to—it was only a small dose, and usually people under it see lights, flashes. Nothing major, distorted vision and hearing, odd sensations, usually pleasant. That's what it said, Peter checked in a drug manual. All he wanted to see was how easy it was to tell reality from your imagination, how much it felt like a dream. We didn't know, he'd never been in the hospital for anything. Peter's allergic to some drugs, you know, but he didn't then, and..." Swallowing, Ray pressed his forehead against his fists. "He found out. It was late at night, we were the only ones in the building. I would've called someone, but I didn't know who—he had made me swear not to tell Egon, and if I called the hospital— It wasn't exactly a scientific experiment, and if the school found out...they didn't like Peter even then, they would've used it as an excuse to cut his funding, maybe rejected his dissertation.

"So I stayed with him—if he had fainted I would've taken him to the hospital, anyway, but he didn't, he just... Winston, he didn't even know me sometimes, and when he did he, he was scared. He thought I'd... He saw things, not lights, he kept talking about giant spiders and falling—it was like a nightmare, but he was awake, his eyes were open. I kept telling him it wasn't real, and sometimes he'd believe me, but then he...he screamed. I remember that because it scared me so much, it didn't even sound like a human being. I thought...I thought he might be possessed, because he said something about ghosts, too. He said they were everywhere, the dead were everywhere..." Trust the occultist to recall that detail. Winston slipped an arm around his shoulders as Ray shivered, so tense his muscles were trembling. He held on until Ray inhaled deeply a few times, released the air in a long measured hiss.

"It only lasted a couple hours," Ray concluded after collecting himself. "Then Peter fell asleep. I watched him, to make sure he didn't... His pulse was okay, and his breathing, so I just stayed and made sure it didn't get any worse, and he woke up on his own in the morning. He didn't...he didn't talk about it right away, except to ask me not to tell Egon; he knew I wouldn't tell anybody else. He said later he didn't remember most of it, but he took the audio cassettes we had recorded. I don't know what he did with them. He acted pretty normally, but he didn't sleep well the next week. He told Egon he was coming down with a cold. I don't think— Egon knew something else was wrong, but he didn't know what, and he didn't ask me. We both sort of pretended to forget about it, but Peter was careful about drugs after that. He never was into them, anyway. He called himself a traditionalist because he stuck to beer at parties, but after that he was careful to find out exactly what was in a prescription, and he wouldn't go under at the dentist's if he had a choice..."

Winston knew that much already. But now...Peter hadn't had a choice, obviously. If Ulster had known, or if he hadn't—did it matter? What he was doing... Winston felt sick; he understood Ray's reaction all too well. The bile burned the back of his throat, but he forced it down, spoke steadily, "Pete'll be okay. He's made it so far..." Not in the best condition, true, but it could be worse. A lot worse. Winston tried not to think about when that tape had been made; could've been last night, or two days ago, no way to be sure. Peter's time sense surely was screwy, and there was no way to know what had happened in the interim. "And you heard him, he's relying on us to get him out of there. Which we're going to."

Ray gulped, nodded jerkily and started to stand. Winston made it to his feet first, gave him a hand up. "Why don't we have breakfast now, if you're up to it," he suggested, "and then we can go over the tape. Maybe if we scan the cassette and the envelope—"

"Scan!" The little color that had returned to Ray's cheeks abruptly fled. Winston caught his arm as he staggered, supported himself against the sink. "Oh, my gosh—Egon's meter, Peter said they took Egon's meter—"

Winston thought back and nodded. "He said something about his pack, too—"

"We found that," Ray gasped. "But we didn't find the meter. I wasn't thinking, why didn't I think of that—Egon's always got a meter. If Peter brought a pack, Egon would've brought a PKE meter—"

"Yeah," Winston agreed; the physicist rarely worked without one. "So?"

"I didn't think of— If Ulster took it, instead of just leaving it like he left the pack—he wouldn't be interested in that, he'd think it was just a weapon—but the meter's Egon's." Ray's eyes were feverishly bright, but no longer with tears. "He might've taken it. Winston, meters have their own power source. They need it to pick up the lowest PKE levels, that's why they overload sometimes. And they radiate. Not like the energy the pack emits, nowhere near as strong, but it's a distinctive frequency. Even if it's been deactivated, there should still be a trace. I can set a meter to scan, I know the frequency—"

"You're saying we can track it?" Winston demanded.

Ray nodded so violently he nearly off-balanced himself. "Better than biorhythms, you can follow it over a much greater distance and it lasts longer. There could be a trace in the parking lot still. If Ulster brought the meter with him—"

If he had, it'd be the biggest break they'd gotten. "Get dressed while I get Ecto warmed up," Winston instructed. "How long will it take you to adjust a meter to scan for it?"

"Not long," Ray assured him, "maybe an hour."

"You can do it on the drive to the campus," Winston decided. Which took less than an hour, but looking at the determination settling once more over Ray's features, he suspected the calibration would go somewhat faster than usual. Worry for his friends, fear for Egon and anguish for Peter still reflected in Ray's hazel eyes, but it had been overtaken by that purposeful fire. The warnings they had received, the implications of those few minutes of video, had only strengthened his resolve.

Probably not what Ulster had had in mind when he sent that tape, Winston thought with grim humor. But he didn't realize what he was dealing with. Even if he had known Egon, Peter, and Ray, Kenny had never known the Ghostbusters. He was going to learn just who he had crossed. And, scientists or not, he wouldn't forget them anytime soon.

 

* * *

Egon had no idea where he was. For approximately an hour, he had sat in the interior of a small truck, empty but for the benches along both walls. The doors were locked from the outside and the opposite panel, presumably dividing him from the driver, was seamless, reinforced metal. He had rapped his knuckles against it, but gotten no response. At least the ride had been smooth; mostly highway travel, he judged, from the long stretches they rode without sharp turns and the faint noise of speeding traffic. The only other sound was the rumble of the truck's engine.

Once he had determined there was no escape, Egon spent the journey on the bench, hands clasped over his knees, waiting. When the truck lurched to a halt, he crouched before the doors on the off-chance there might be only a single guard. No such luck; after opening the truck the two black-clad men backed out of range, angling their weapons at their captive as they beckoned him forth. Raising his empty hands, Egon stepped down from the truck.

They were in a building, a warehouse, it appeared, from the high ceiling and cement floor. The guards said nothing, their postures making it clear that he was not to approach. One of them pointed to a door in the nearest wall. Egon walked over, opened it and, after another curt gesture from the man, entered. He found himself in a dimly lit hallway of more white-washed concrete walls, wide and not too long.

The door swung shut behind him. When he tried the handle he was unsurprised to find it locked. Through it he heard truck doors slamming and the roar of the engine accelerating away. The distant rattle, followed by a shuddering thud, would be the garage door raising and lowering again.

Even if he could break through the door, it was doubtful there would be any escape behind it. Instead Egon headed down the corridor. He turned the corner, discovered the two doors in the next segment of passageway were locked as well. The hallways once had been the warehouse's offices; now they were testing grounds. The corridor might lead to the main warehouse floor, or somewhere else entirely. How might this barricaded maze fit with Ulster's experiment...?

His speculation was cut short by the distinctive tap of approaching footsteps. Egon froze, deliberating whether to retreat the way he had come, or go toward them—it sounded like one man, with an uneven gait—a slow, hesitant pacing, alternating with the faster patter of a jog.

Even broken up, the footsteps had a familiar rhythm, one he dared not believe, but nonetheless Egon was ready when he saw the other round the corner. In a burst of relief so sharp it was painful, he cried out, "Peter!"

At his call, the man froze, wide eyes darting to the physicist. Egon, automatically rushing forward, jerked to a halt at that look. Peter's eyes, but their green was darkened and his pupils so dilated they almost obscured what emerald remained. They were sunken in his too-white face, cheeks pinched and jaw tight. While still in his brown uniform, the cloth hung loose on his lean frame, his shoulders hunching defensively.

All the nightmares Egon's imagination had conjured in the past few days were washed away, replaced with new terrors. He was alive, but beyond that—

"Peter?" Egon asked tentatively, unsure if he saw any recognition in that glassy stare. If Peter didn't know him...what then? Could this be Ulster's purpose all along, not only to hurt, to destroy...

Peter's eyes flew up and locked onto Egon's, and something sparked in his expression, turned the pale face from a stranger's to a friend's. He straightened with effort, took an even greater one to curl his mouth up in the faintest allusion to his usual smirk. "Hi, Spengs." His voice, too, was only an imitation of his regular brazen tenor. But the words were all Venkman.

With a gasp that might have been a sob, Egon took the few necessary steps to close the distance between them, but Peter opened it again, stumbling back, one hand flying up to ward the other man off when his back hit the wall. Swallowing, Egon stopped dead in his tracks.

"Peter, what's happened—what's Ulster—are you—"

Peter closed his eyes, dropped his head as if exhausted, or to avoid his friend's gaze. "...I've been better." Leaning against the wall, he drew a deep, shaky breath and looked to Egon again. "How're you?"

It was quieter, lacking the usual edge, but Egon still knew that tone and searching stare, neither to be denied. "Physically I'm uninjured," he answered honestly. "But I— They wouldn't tell me about you. I haven't known— I feared—"

"Yeah," Peter agreed, "I know. He wouldn't tell me about you, either. He..." He squeezed his eyes shut, forced them open and blinked rapidly, fiercely shaking his head. "Never mind. Here. Got something for you," and he thrust out his other hand.

Egon reflexively took what was offered before he perceived its nature. When his fingers closed around it, Peter snatched back as if burned. Egon glanced down at the sudden motion, saw the gun in his own grasp and nearly dropped it. "What—" The weapon felt unnatural, though his palm fit around the molded handle as designed, his index finger slipping over the trigger. Too heavy for such a small object, and though the metal was warm to the touch, it chilled him all the same. "How did you get it? Is it the guards'?" It wasn't, he was realized, without even knowing why. This device didn't fire tranquilizer darts.

Peter confirmed, "Not one of theirs. Has real bullets—I checked."

"But then you should take it, you've more experience—" Egon held out the gun to him. Peter was more capable with most weapons, and certainly firearms.

"No!" Egon jumped at the shout. Peter's eyes were wider than ever, intense and enormous in his drawn visage. "You gotta keep it, Egon...protection..."

"I hardly know how to shoot, Peter; you can use it. When the guards come back—"

"They didn't...give it to me for that," Peter panted, focusing on the piece.

Egon's eyes went to it as well, then shot up to Peter's wan face as his words registered. Give? "What— Peter, how did you get this?" He had assumed his friend had stolen it, how he didn't know, but swiped it from a guard and concealed it, with that impossible finesse only Peter Venkman could manage, when circumstances required.

But Peter, eyes still on the gun, explained, "They left it on the floor before they left, few minutes ago, right before I went to find you. Knew you'd be here. Found you as fast as I could. Before..." Slowly his head came up. "Last couple days, I've figured it out," he said distinctly, not a snarl, but cool and rational. "What Kenny's up to. This experiment."

"What?" Egon demanded, blood curdling at the emptiness in Peter's eyes, and beyond that void invisible fear and anguish, only knowable from the barest quiver in the frail voice. He wanted to clasp his friend's arms, confirm that physically at least he was present, that something remained of Peter Venkman—but every time Egon made any motion toward him, Peter flinched back. Frightened, by what Egon couldn't tell, couldn't even guess, any more than he had guessed the nature of these tests.

But Peter had, and understood now, too well. He spoke low and rapidly, Egon following him with the ease of familiarity. "You know, with hypnotism, even if you can hypnotize a person, you can't order them to do something they wouldn't normally. Even if you twist it, make it seem different in their heads, you can't force them to do anything that they wouldn't.

"Kenny's trying to see if his drugs can do that. Alcohol breaks down inhibitions, but these do more, a hell of a lot more, they break down—they get inside and twist everything so far you can't tell anything, and then how can you even know what you would do, or what you wouldn't?" Peter raised one hand, visibly shaking, and raked it through his tangled hair. "That's—that's why we were good for this, why I was good for this—our reality's so damn confusing anyway, right? What's normal for us, real for us is scary for some, crazy to the rest. So it wouldn't take, doesn't take much, a little push and there you are, off that edge—"

"No," Egon told him. "It feels like that when you're under, but you're stronger. It passes, Peter. And I'm here, I'll help you. Have they given you more of the drug?"

Peter nodded, a twitch of his head up and down. "Right before they gave me that," flicking his fingers toward the gun. "Soon—"

"I'm here," Egon repeated, reaching to clasp Peter's shoulder.

The other man ducked. "You don't—haven't asked what they're trying to do. What they're trying to make me... Ever seen _The Manchurian Candidate_, Egon?"

He had, years before, and still remembered it. A killer, trained through hypnosis so that he himself was unaware of his training, until his programming was triggered—the perfect assassin because he didn't know it himself. A masterful film; but the implication of the reference now... Egon reeled, caught himself against the wall.

Peter didn't offer support, only a death's head grin. "This is...a lot less subtle..."

Staring, Egon whispered, "Ulster cannot believe, no matter what he—that you would—"

"That's why they gave me the gun." His breath hissed through clenched teeth. "Why I gave it to you."

"To escape," Egon insisted. "When they come back—" Like lab rats, turn them loose in the maze and observe them run it—there must be cameras everywhere in this building, Ulster and his colleagues watching, recording. But they wouldn't see what they were expecting, they wouldn't— "We'll hide, and when the guards come—"

"No!" Peter cried again. The sharp breath he drew hardly steadied him; he trembled like a leaf in a hurricane, but when Egon would have taken his arm, he jerked away. Dredging up the last vestiges of a smile. "Got it half right—you'll hide. Get away—"

"I'm staying here," Egon informed him, "or wherever you go. I'm not leaving you, Peter. You shouldn't be alone."

"Managed it already," Peter growled. "I'll be okay."

Egon had long since figured out that the occasional times Peter insisted he was self-sufficient were the times he most needed assistance, but rarely was it so patently obvious. Too well Egon remembered his last sight of his friend, huddled on the cage floor—his condition now was far deteriorated; that later reaction to the drug would do far worse damage. And before that, it was conceivable Peter could hurt himself, no longer confined when his demons came.

He had observed it once already, unable to do anything for him; Egon couldn't endure another such experience. "No. I'll stay. I'll unload the gun, if that's what worries you. We can reload it when the guards come, just show me—"

"_No!_" shouted Peter a third time, and with the denial, he spun on his heel and slammed his fist into the concrete wall, with enough force to drive him back a step. The blow thudded dully, dying without echo.

Egon tightened his grip before the gun dropped from his nerveless fingers. With a deliberate slowness that might have seemed calm, were his shoulders not shaking in short gasps, Peter withdrew his arm and lifted his fist to the yellow light. Dark blood gleamed slickly on the bruised knuckles. He made no effort to wipe it away, instead said quietly, "I didn't feel that. You might need the gun. As protection."

No words would leave Egon's mouth. He made an aborted motion toward the injury, halting before Peter drew back. Green eyes caught his and would not allow him to turn aside, though when Peter spoke, he sounded as if he were addressing someone very far away, mechanically reciting a scripted command. "Get out of here, Spengs, get out of here now, because when it hits, I'm not going to know up from down, and I won't be able to tell you apart from the demons."

Egon still couldn't speak, but he shook his head, and Peter reared back, fists balled as if he would strike the other man. He didn't; instead he shouted, the wail somehow distant for all its force, like he wasn't the one thinking the words, "I don't want to hurt you! If you care for your life, get out of here!" Then he ran, shoved himself off the wall with his injured hand and shot down the hall, stumbling a little but moving fast.

He disappeared around the corner and Egon was halfway down the corridor after him before he was aware of moving. He paused to catch his breath and plan his approach, and state aloud for Peter or Ulster or anyone else who could hear, "I care for my life."

But I care more for another's. There was no need to affirm that truth. He followed his friend.

 

* * *

He had handed over the gun. The doctor, watching the monitor intently, saw Subject Alpha do it, but didn't quite believe it, even so. He wondered what Ulster thought.

The biochemist was observing at the main facility. Only the physician personally attended these tests; his two colleagues had never entered the actual compound—the maze, the neurologist had once called it in a moment of sarcasm. The warehouse was completely contained, wired for observation, with multiple remote receivers at the main facility. Nothing in the maze could escape the lenses and microphones; there were infrared cameras should lights be broken, and all the monitors were independently powered. The other two scientists could observe from the distance; the doctor, however, had to be close at hand, to minister to the subjects if necessary.

In the past year's work on this particular substance, they had run two other trials in the maze. The doctor had been present for both, safely ensconced in the small office atop the warehouse. Both tests had proceeded the same way, though the first time he had saved both subjects; the second time they had lost the Beta. So he knew what to expect now. And Ulster would surely be watching closely, anxious to see how well-chosen his subjects truly were. Certainly Alpha's reactions to the drug had been violent enough; they had barely needed to adjust his dosage.

Perhaps they should have taken more time to do so. While his reactions were as expected, his actions under it were not. Even if the most recent dose had not yet taken effect, paranoia was one of its strongest after-effects—not only a biochemical but a psychological reaction. When a man couldn't trust his own mind, what grounds had he to trust anyone or anything else? And yet Alpha had sought the other subject out, and given him the weapon without hesitation.

Ulster had his reasons for choosing these two. They had been commissioned to design and prove this drug as effective as possible, across a wide range of individuals and circumstances. In previous tests, the subjects had been strangers, their only camaraderie that of two prisoners. This upped the ante, if it proved they could induce a man to turn on a friend. When that had been demonstrated, Ulster would demand more extreme cases. Two lovers? A parent and a child? What bonds would he next want to test?

If there were another test. Alpha had given his friend the gun, a behavior so far from the established norms that there were no probabilities or predictions for it. The doctor couldn't guess what would happen now. But watching them, he began to have an inkling that Ulster's mistake in choosing these subjects had been even greater than they had thought.

Just as he wondered if the biochemist was reaching the same conclusion, the telephone on the desk before him gave a muted beep. Not taking his eyes from the monitor, the doctor lifted the receiver. "Yes?"

 

* * *

Voices hissed around him, sparks flickered and dimmed, and he ran from the danger, through the darkness. Was this a cave? He didn't think it was. Caves were cooler; this place was warm. There had been bars before, black bars. None here now.

Danger behind him, that was why he ran, terrible danger. Must be a demon, what else could it be, and he without his proton pack. And where were the guys? They should be here, if there were a demon. They wouldn't leave him alone to face a demon. Maybe they were behind him. No, he never would have left them fighting it, even if he didn't have a pack.

A form loomed up before him, not living, a square shadow lined with golden glitter from the light above, not the sun, too dim, for all it hurt his eyes. The sky was dull, murky, low-hanging clouds roiling overhead, heavy with poison rain.

Dodging around the rough outcropping, he almost ran into the woman, instead ran through her.

Whirling, he faced her. Thin, young, with huge brown eyes and dark blond hair, she almost was pretty. Not a nightmare. "Go," he gasped, "Danger—it's coming—go—"

She looked human, except that her feet hovered a few inches above the ground. Shaking her head, she pointed behind them, mouth moving as if to speak, but he couldn't hear her words.

"There's a demon," he warned her desperately. "I can't protect you, run—" It was coming, he knew it was. He could hear it, smell it, feel its heavy footsteps vibrate the earth.

Reaching out a slender long-fingered hand, she beckoned for him, but he realized then the danger, knew her as a demon, too. The golden locks twisted like snakes, Medusa lunging for his throat. Dashing into the shadows, he escaped her, but he couldn't stay still among them, not with the spiders brushing past his ankles, cobwebs tangling around him. He kept running, circling the blocky stones, huge rotting tree trunks, seeking the passage he had emerged from. The cave?

Something was wrong. More than the spiders—spiders were small, but these were as big as dogs. He couldn't see them, but he could feel them rubbing against his legs, trying to bite him. The demon, the demon was still there—the demons, because she had become one, too.

But he had seen her before and she wasn't dangerous, and she hadn't tried to grab him. She had only extended her hand, pleading with him, though he didn't understand her request. It couldn't have been her; the demon must have taken her form, one of the demons. How many were there?

Where was he, all alone, with the demons everywhere? He turned a corner and one rose up before him, a yellow-eyed shadow, hulking and huge, reaching at him with talons large as Hob Anagarak's. Everywhere he spun there was a terrible figure, twisted and enormous, snatching at him. Closing his eyes, he ran blindly forward, until he was pressed against the rock. When he opened them, the monsters were gone, though he could hear them behind him, claws and fangs scraping against the stony earth.

He hadn't recognized any of them, new demons, ones they didn't know. He needed Ray here to identify them, Egon to give their PKE readings, Winston to drive them back with a well-aimed proton stream. Where was his own pack; why didn't he have his weapon? He had had one, but had given it up—the demons must have tricked him. Where were the guys?

Something was wrong. Why had the demons allowed him to escape? Playing with him, that was their game, playing with him, playing with him and Egon—

His legs trembled beneath him as he panted for breath, and he leaned heavily against the boulder, put his hands to his head as if to hold it in place. Egon had been here, hadn't he...? Yes, he had. Why weren't the demons chasing him?

_Because he led you here for them, _whispered an insistent voice in his mind, but it wasn't his mind, and it was lying. Egon would never betray him.

It wasn't Egon, then, it had to have been a demon—but they had both been captured. Something grazed him and the memory spun away. When he looked nothing was there, but he could feel it, the shadows reaching. The hand is quicker than the eye. What you see is what you get, and he had gotten it—where was Egon? And Winston, and Ray? With a phone he could call them, have them bring his pack and get him the hell out of here. He had no phone. He'd run, but in what direction, with the demons all around?

Thunder. A storm on the horizon, but there was no horizon, only flat beige walls. He rubbed his eyes and they receded into the unfathomable distance, but the sky above was gray, not black. And true thunder was louder, echoed longer—the sound stopped. Boots on a stone floor. A demon? A guard—guards, why would there be guards, what would they be guarding? If he still had the gun—

A voice. "Peter?" Calling his name, clever, very clever, and in a voice he knew, a voice he could almost identify, on the border of his conscious mind.

If there was more after his name he didn't hear it, in the face of the shadow which fell over him. He looked up, a thousand miles, to the shape looming above him. Red eyes as big as his fists met his, not glowing but glassy; he could see his reflection within them, a scarlet self staring back at him in open-mouthed terror. The demon scudded closer on gnarled bow-legs, gray talons gaping wide as it reached for him.

He couldn't move, couldn't even yell, paralyzed—but this was nuts; he had faced far more terrifying beasties before breakfast. He should have some ready comment about the thing's dental work, but his mouth was dry and he could only gaze, transfixed, into its slash of a mouth, the purple tongue slithering between the jagged teeth. Purple, like a twilit sky, like a developing bruise, like the pills in Ulster's pale hand—

A sharp-clawed paw swept at him and he scrambled back. The slathering jaws moved, a low and unfittingly articulate voice issuing from its gullet, "Peter..."

His back was against the boulder, its shelter now a prison. As he had been trapped before, but now he could fight back, and did. Without warning, he bolted forward, ramming his head into the monster's thick-hided belly. It collapsed with a growling cough, not as large or strong as it had appeared, and something clattered out of its outstretched hand.

Stooping, he swept it up in his flight, his fingers curling around the butt of the gun. Destruction. Protection. It would do until the guys came. They were, he knew it. They would find him yet, find them yet, he and Egon—

The voice, the monster's voice, it had been Egon's. Stunned that he hadn't recognized it sooner, he skidded to a halt, jerked around but the creature was gone. Frenzied shadows dancing in the corner of his eyes, but nothing moved before his direct line of sight. The demon had used Egon's voice; if it had taken him, swallowed him whole or stolen it from him—

"Egon!" he shouted, throwing back his head. The name reverberated through the rocks and off the sky, echoed back to him in cruel mockery, the sound multiplying instead of dying to fill his ears. If there was a response, it was lost in that tumult.

But something heard; he saw them crawl out from under the rocks and behind the broken trees. The rustle of dry carapaces and the faint skittering of their wire-thin legs against the ground almost muffled the clicking clatter of their mandibles, twitching shut and snapping wide again, indefatigably chewing at empty air. They scuttled over the ground and stones and one another, long antennae trailing behind them, black faceted eyes gleaming through the shadows.

The gun would be useless against their multitude, but it was the only defense he had, when the demons came. Clutching the weapon to him, he scrambled up the boulder—no, a tree trunk; his boots sank into the decaying wood. It gave way beneath him and he grappled for purchase, dug his free fingers into the bark and hauled himself up. Once on top, he crouched to catch his breath. The exertion hadn't been that great; adrenaline must make his heart pound so loudly in his ears, blackness pressing in on his vision and his braced arms quivering.

Pushing to his feet, he balanced carefully, his two legs barely enough to establish an equilibrium. At least the surface was flat, not irregularly rounded as a normal tree but square and smooth. So high above the rough ground; he blinked back a wave of vertigo.

The demons arose in that moment of dizziness. They were below, but so monstrous and huge that their claws could almost reach him. Howling high-pitched wails, they stretched their distorted arms up, long limbs extending to grope for him with spidery fingers.

They wouldn't find him such easy prey. Raising the gun, he pointed it at the closest demon, between the round red eyes. His hands shook; he needed both to hold the pistol steady. Aim carefully, perhaps he had only the one chance, though he burned to fire again and again, see the ichor spurt from its grotesque skull. The gun was no thrower, but the guys hadn't come, and this monster had attacked Egon, might have killed him, or worse.

For an instant he saw his friend, broken in the jaws of the monster. He had failed to protect him, and Egon's blue eyes watched him reproachfully, accusing.

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry_—tears were streaming down his face and it wasn't because of the smoky clouds. He couldn't stop them, and he couldn't stop his hands from shaking, but he tightened his grip on the weapon, clenched his finger around the trigger—

"_Wait!_" wailed a voice, a stranger's, faint and far away and yet he heard it over the demons. Tearing his gaze from the monster's, he rocked back his head, and made out her outline, golden hair and delicate figure, slender arms outstretched toward him, gesturing to the gun, not in threat but desperate entreaty. "You cannot!" she moaned. "You would let them win!" But her voice died even as she cried out, her faded silhouette blurring.

Then she was gone, as if the cry had drained her of all she was. _You would let them win._ But he would kill them; that would be no triumph. The monsters loomed closer and he lifted the gun again. How many bullets in the clip, enough to drop them all? If some fell, perhaps the others would flee, realizing the peril—or perhaps they would only pretend. They hunkered down now in fright, but it was trickery, all tricks, all games they played with him. Upside down and inside out.

He could play, too. It had brought them before, when he had shouted it. "Egon!"

"I'm here, Peter, I'm right here." Like an answer to a prayer, but the voice was drowned out by a demon's screech. He ducked the swing of its serrated claws and nearly lost his balance, spread his legs and bent his knees to maintain it. Bringing up the gun, he prepared to fire. As many shots as he had, and if they weren't enough at least he'd go down fighting—

_You would let them win._ And Egon's voice came from below him. He spun, stared around wildly, but saw only the monsters' nightmare forms, sliding out from his line of fire. If he misfired—surely Egon would hide, he must be hiding from the demons, surely he had run. They were tricking him again, and if he went along with their mimicry, he could lure them into range.

"If you're here, why can't I see you?" he challenged.

Claws scratched the floor of stone as the demon shambled forth, hollow red eyes staring up at him. Even as they did, he felt another wave of weakness—sapping his energy, some invisible mechanism in that scarlet gaze, draining the strength from his muscles. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on the gun, so heavy in his hands. Egon spoke again, his bass difficult to discern over the howling of the beasts, impossible to locate, but he insisted, "You can't see—I'm right in front of you."

"Then you're a demon, one of them—which one?" He swung around, searching, but the only demon who stayed in sight was the red-eyed monster, and that drooling, gaping mouth didn't move. "I want Egon. What have you done to him? I'll kill you—"

Oh, they were good. The little catch in Egon's voice, so like the real thing, the barely suppressed fear so genuine. "Peter, it's me! There are no demons—"

"I see them!" he screamed. It sounded so much like Egon, he almost automatically believed, as if he looked closely enough, their solid writhing masses would vanish like the woman. "You lie!" Egon would never lie to him; this wasn't Egon, only a demon's trick. "You're fooling me—" He forced his arms straight, the gun's barrel dipping down to point between the creature's vermilion orbs. Pull the trigger, end this now; he set his stance against the recoil.

Egon gasped—not Egon, only the imitation voice. Then it sounded calm, the physicist at his most stoic. When circumstances reached their very worst, Egon retreated behind that bleak facade, froze his feelings solid while he dealt with catastrophe, and paid the price after it was over, when the wall came down. But now there was cool logic in his tone, and only one who knew him well enough to read his soul could hear the emotions raging under that level urgency. "Peter, you must listen to me. You're right, the demons are tricking you. I'm right before you, but they won't let you see me. They can hide from you, but I can see them. Peter, give me the gun, please, I'll protect us—"

So that was their goal. "You want to kill me!"

"No!" The force of that denial shattered all semblance of reason, a purely instinctual response. He could picture Egon gathering himself after the explosion, drawing together the ragged shreds of his rationality. So like him, to push on. "I want to help you—you don't need the gun."

Never could he recall his friend sounding so close to the edge, his wall fracturing under the crisis. Why, when they had faced demons so many times before? Egon withstood any threat without flinching, accepted any peril with infuriating equanimity; and yet his voice was cracking now, the intensity of those feelings ripping at his own heart, more terrifying and painful than the slashes of the demons' claws. What would hurt his friend so terribly? The demons, or else it was all the trick, the emotion false.

Kill the demons and it would end, the trickery or the torture, either way he would stop it, but as he closed his finger over the trigger, he remembered what Egon had said—the false Egon, except what if it were him, and what if it were true, and the demons were twisting his thoughts, his vision? Demons could cast illusions, the powerful ones. If he misfired; if they warped the path of the bullet; if it killed, but not the demon—

"I can't believe you," he rasped, groping to find the answer in his own mind and failing. "How do I know I can trust you—"

There was so long a pause he nearly stopped listening, before the reply came. "You don't." Egon's voice—not Egon's voice, the false one, that hopeless desperation not his friend's, never heard in his friend's confident expositions. "I—I can't prove it to you, not now... but trust me. Trust me, Peter, like you always have."

He couldn't believe it, of course he couldn't, couldn't trust anything they said—but if it were true, if any of it were true... He feared the demons, they terrified him more deeply than he could understand. But there were worse fears, far worse, and when the trickery had ended, if any of them had come to pass...

The gun was his protection, his right to defend himself, and with it he could fight the demons. This was a trick, a lie—but if it weren't?

He couldn't listen, had to trust his instincts, burning to annihilate the monsters surrounding him, necessary, and with those red eyes darkened, his strength might be returned to him, the power to fight the rest. He had it in him to kill these, it was his duty as a Ghostbuster to battle the demons, defeat them, destroy them, or else be destroyed. A necessary risk, and always, in this as in everything, he survived because he lived by his wits, trusted intuition. Now every fiber in his body screamed to kill as he must, ignore the demon tricks.

Egon's false voice fallen silent, and the demons' panting a harsh hiss in his ear, or was that only his own breathing? Everything paralyzed, a single frozen moment, the only motion his finger on the trigger of the gun, and the demon could never dodge aside in time—

_You cannot!_

It wasn't the woman's voice; it was his own. He jerked back as he fired, the bullet soaring toward the sky, burrowing into the concrete clouds.

After it he flung the gun, watched its sleek glittering metal arc to the ground. He dropped with it, to his knees. Too great a risk, to kill, when he couldn't be sure. But he had no defense now, and nothing left in him with which to fight, not even terror, only emptiness, a cup drained to the final drop. No longer holding his muscles taut against the shivers, he closed his eyes, and waited for the demons to come.

 

* * *

Finger over the switch, the doctor saw Alpha's lips move as he balanced precariously on the platform, but even when he turned up the gain there was no sound, and the subject's gaze was fixed on empty air. A silent conversation with nothing.

He flipped the switch, cutting the feed, audio and visual.

The call had been the neuropsychologist. Her cold, flat voice had grown even colder and flatter, as she told him, "They're coming."

No need to ask who; it could be no one but the associates of their subjects. "You knew they would, when you gave them that tape—"

"Not so soon," she snapped. "It's only been hours and there's already a stranger—not law enforcement—outside Ulster's house, and the other two Ghostbusters found something at the campus. They're tracking it now. It's bringing them to this facility. Get out."

"Have you told our colleague?"

"No. I will not. I'm leaving now." The phone clicked.

He replaced the receiver as the dial tone began to hum. For a few long minutes, he had only watched the screen, barely aware of the events it showed. _They're coming._ They were, of course, prepared for the eventuality of discovery, but he was surprised to find how deeply it shocked him nonetheless. While the drama in the maze played out, he slowly gathered his few notes, papers and disks; then he activated the virus. His files at the facility, all electronic, would be destroyed the moment anyone attempted access. If he required copies, wherever they next assigned him he would have them.

Last he cut the feed. On the monitor, he watched the two subjects, the one threatening the other from the platform, eyes wide and face distorted as he leveled the gun at a man he once called friend. Momentarily, the doctor wished to halt the experiment, contact them, reassure them, but that weakness passed. _They're coming._ Perhaps not in time to save their associates, but nonetheless closing this chapter in his life.

Something flashed across the monitor, little more than static interference, but its shape caught his eye. Before he saw more, he hit the switch and the screens darkened.

He patched through to the facility before Ulster could call him. "Yes?" snarled the biochemist's irritated baritone.

"I'm sorry about the cut-off," he apologized. "We're experiencing technical difficulties. Nothing to do with the subjects. I've been informed that rodents got into the wiring. Any suggestions?"

At first Ulster only ground his teeth, furious, but when he spoke, it was calmly. "No."

"We'll get it working again as soon as possible," the doctor lied, taking perverse pleasure in baiting his colleague—no longer his colleague now. This was over. "I can order the guards to enter, watch and report—"

Another man observing his triumph; of course Ulster wouldn't have it. "No," he denied again. "We know how this will end. In twelve hours return with the bodies." He broke the connection.

If there would be bodies. That guarantee was no longer assured; nothing was. If the doctor entered the compound now, what would he see? He didn't know, but what he guessed was nearly enough to make him laugh out loud. Grabbing his valise, he strode out the door without another look around, locked it behind him for the final time.

As he took the cargo elevator down, he considered what he had glimpsed on the monitor, that brief, blurred image. Pondering the trick of light and cameras which had made flowing blonde hair and too-knowing brown eyes out of empty air. She was long dead. Only the living concerned him—and even they no longer.

He would return to his house, collect what he needed, and by tomorrow he would be gone, as would be the facility, and their subjects, and her ghost. Despite the variables, that much was a constant—by then, this would be over.

 

* * *

Egon's voice, calling him. "Peter. Peter!"

It seemed as if he had been going on like that forever. The wood of the platform was rough against his palms. He pressed his hands down and felt the splinters driving into his flesh. No pain, only a dull twinge from deadened nerves. It couldn't be Egon; he'd told Egon to go.

"Peter?"

Sure as hell sounded like him, though.

"Peter, I know—I know how frightening this is, but you're going to be all right. You'll be all right. I promise, Peter."

He kept saying his name, like a mantra, to not forget it, or to keep _him_ from forgetting. A pleading summons, and the part of Peter which heard it wanted more than anything to go to it, take shelter in his friend's comfort.

"Peter, trust me—"

_I do, Spengs, of course I do._ How could Egon even ask that? He must know Peter trusted him, with his life, with his self, with anything. _It's myself I can't trust._ How much of this was real? Were the shadows of light or of his mind? He couldn't tell; he didn't even know how to begin. At least the demons were gone. Back where they belonged, in the furthest corners of his mind. Not a place he'd ever want to live, and maybe he should keep visiting hours down to the bare minimum.

Straightening his arms, he used the leverage to work himself to his feet. His head whirled at the sudden shift of altitude and he reached for a prop not there, stumbled backwards.

"Peter!" Egon's softly desperate tone went loud and strident. "Stop!"

He obeyed without considering, too accustomed to listening to his friend's advice to ignore it now, not with that force in the command. Halting, he swayed, blinked up at the ceiling and then down, directly behind his heels, the gray ground as far below as the ceiling was above his head. Another step and he would be off the platform, on the cool cement beneath. Unless he just continued to fall, like Alice in the rabbit hole, down and down and down into ever greater darkness. Or maybe he would float, as the woman had, trailing a few inches above the ground. He blinked at his feet; they looked as if they touched the platform, but he couldn't feel it beneath his boots. To test, he cautiously lifted one—

"No, Peter!" Egon protested. That gasp was so out of character he doubted again that it truly was his friend; Egon never sounded so frantic. He barely had his panic under control as he lowered his voice, spoke rationally, but it sounded like it took unnatural effort. "Peter, listen to me, I want you to kneel again. You're dizzy; if you fall you could be injured."

He didn't argue, folded his legs again and sat on the rough wood. No longer occupied with balancing, his mind cleared slightly, and he recalled how little he cared for heights. Uncomfortable to be so high now, but that was less important than the lethargy spreading through him, a black veil dropping over his vision. Perhaps he had taken the last step back after all; he was falling, sitting on the platform and tumbling endlessly through space. The dichotomy was so amusing he almost giggled.

"Good," Egon congratulated him for sitting, then didn't stop talking, and he couldn't ignore that stream of words, though he tried. "Peter, do you remember—do you know what's happened to you? Ulster, and the drugs? Why..."

Of course he did. Purple, always purple, lavender pills and violet liquid, color in a black and white world of shadows.

That was why he couldn't go to Egon now, more important than the fatigue pressing over him, or the height of this damned platform. Too dangerous; what he might do, what he might have done, and this voice might only be in his mind...

"Can you see me?" Egon asked. "I can't see you. You climbed the crates, but they broke when you kicked them down. I can't get up there, Peter. You have to help me."

No, he didn't; safer this way. Simpler not to move. Egon didn't give it up, though.

"Please—I know you're tired, but don't rest yet. You dislike sleeping in high places. You hated bunkbeds, remember?" He shouldn't try to force that lightness; it made his throat thick, his words unsteady. "Peter, are you awake? Wake up, Peter, respond to me—"

He groaned, but crawled forward a few feet to the other side of the platform, enough to quiet him. Egon's relief was pale in light of his distress, but he made the attempt.

"Thank you. You have to listen to me, Peter—there's a ladder not far from you. You'll have to lower it."

He didn't check for it. Shaking his head slightly, he closed his eyes, slid out of the kneel to bend his legs around him, leaning on his arms. He could fall asleep, fall away, slip forever into the blackness behind his lids.

"Peter, look at me." Egon had stopped asking for the ladder. "Just look at me," he begged, and he had to hide his face into the crook of his arm to keep himself from obeying. If he looked, he would be lost—but he couldn't block out his voice, and couldn't ignore it. "Peter, please..."

There was such agony it frightened him; he had to look, had to know if he were all right—had he hurt Egon? He couldn't remember, the most recent hours were an emptier blur than the rest, but if he had attacked him, given into those mindless soulless impulses—if he had harmed him—

Far below, wide blue eyes fixed on him through the red-rimmed glasses, the white drawn face angled up toward him, mouth partly open in his plea. There were tear tracks on the pale cheeks, the pain in his voice glittering in his eyes.

"Oh, God," he moaned, seeing that. "What...what'd I do..." He was sure his numb lips prevented the words from passing, but Egon heard them, Egon understood.

"I'm fine, Peter," he denied the evidence of his features, "we're all right. Do you see the ladder?" For the first time, Egon's calm sounded true, wavering but real.

He turned his head, saw it hardly a yard away, parallel to the platform and connected by a complexity of girders, wires, and pulleys. The tangle was too confusing to make sense of, but Egon guided him to crawl alongside the ladder and release the catch holding it in place.

With a squeal of abused metal, one end dropped. Egon had grabbed the lower rungs before it clanged against the floor. Peter heard him clamber up, shut his eyes and drew back, too late aware of his mistake, but too exhausted to retreat. He had hurt Egon; he might again, and Egon wouldn't go, and wouldn't allow him to hide. Upon reaching the platform, Egon stopped, still on the ladder, such intensity in his cobalt eyes that his expression couldn't be read. Might have been horror or anger, rejection or grief, impossible to say.

That he might be responsible for any of those darkest feelings... Peter shuddered uncontrollably, and as if it were a signal, Egon hurdled forward onto the platform to grab his friend, hold him tightly enough to still the tremors. Strong, the pressure ringing his shoulders, too strong to be injured, and he believed that proof when he hadn't bought his insistence aloud. Egon wasn't hurt, not by him, and he was strong enough to bear Peter's weight, catch him as he fell. He didn't move, but the blackness rushed past him, ever faster.

He buried his face in the warm circle of his friend's arms and felt Egon's hand come up to support his head, pressing it to his chest. Darkness always, but he had something to hold onto, and not so terrible because it was no longer a void. The shadows now were warm and the silence was broken by the rumble of a familiar, gentle voice. Even if he could no longer understand the words, they followed him into the dark, the murmur assuring him that he did not fall alone.

 

* * *

Resettling herself in the bucket seat, Janine folded her arms and glared through the windshield at the house down the street. Nary a sign of life, inside or out, in the five long hours she had sat here.

High time for her to be relieved, but when she called the firehall, there was no answer, and Ray and Winston had apparently either turned off their cellulars, or left them behind when they had gone—wherever they had gone. Usually Winston at least would be more responsible, but she couldn't blame him, given the circumstances. Judging from the redness of their eyes, neither man was sleeping any better than she was, these past few nights.

Even when she did doze off, her sleep was hardly restful. She wondered if Winston and Ray had had similar troubles—it would explain the haunted look in Ray's expression, if his nightmares were comparable to her own. She was grateful she couldn't remember them; the absolute, uncontrollable terror they left her with was bad enough. Worse still was the oddly familiar feel. When she had gone to bed last night after her shift watching for Ulster, she had only slept an hour before jerking up, calling out for Egon—not in fear, but because in the haze between dreams and wakefulness she had thought he was with her in her empty room.

Though Janine knew herself to be somewhat psychic, at the moment she preferred to listen to common sense and deny that the dreams were anything more than the result of stress and anxiety. She deliberately ignored the fact that they had started the night before she had heard the guys were missing. If there was a reality to her nightmares, a reflection of what Egon and Peter might be going through...she didn't want to consider it.

Egon was all right, or would be. He was too intelligent to let anything happen to himself. If there was anything they could be sure of, it was that Egon was smarter than this Doctor Ulster. And he was just a guy, a scientist, not a ghost or a demon, or even a wizard. Piece of cake, compared to the things the guys went up against on a regular basis. He'd be no match for Egon's mind. Besides, Peter wouldn't let anything happen to Egon—he knew what Janine would do to him otherwise. Obnoxious as he was, Peter knew better than to risk the true wrath of a Melnitz.

So Egon was fine. With concentrated effort, Janine had herself three-quarters convinced of that. Which left more worry for Peter than she cared for, especially alone in this car without much else to think about. While Egon was capable of using logic to talk his way out of trouble, Peter was just as able, if not more, of talking his way into it. And though the psychologist tended to insist, loudly, that he looked out for number one, she had been on enough busts to know who was usually the first one in and last one out of sticky situations. He needed the guys for support as much as they relied on him to watch their backs.

_You better be looking out for Dr. V., Egon_, she mentally informed her lost physicist. Egon must understand that she wouldn't be much happier if he returned without Peter than vice versa.

A sudden mental image of Egon's reaction to such a situation, never mind her own feelings, abruptly sobered her. What she said wouldn't matter then; he wouldn't hear her, not for a long time...

Her solitary morbidity was interrupted by the soft trill of her cell phone. She grabbed it eagerly, wasting no time cutting to the chase. "All right, where are you guys, what are you doing—"

"We're outside a laboratory," Ray told her. "We got a lead; I thought of something this morning. I should've thought of it right away, I don't know why I didn't, it's so obvious, it's been three days and it still wasn't that hard to track, if I had scanned—"

Janine was used to the occultist babbling, but this was ridiculous. "Ray, I can't make heads or tails of what you're sayin'. Slow down."

He went quiet so abruptly she feared that something had happened, like maybe he'd bitten off his tongue by mistake, but then Winston's more measured voice came on. "Janine, we've got something, finally." Quickly, he explained about the PKE meters and tracking the energy they emitted.

She nodded, realized it couldn't be seen and all but shouted, "So you followed it? Where'd it go? Did you find them?" Of course they hadn't, they would've told her that right away, but obviously they had called her for a reason. She had a flash of irritation that they hadn't alerted her to the plan sooner, but quashed it for the moment; there'd be time to chew them out later. More important issues were at stake now. "What'd you find, Winston?"

"We took a lot of wrong turns, but we think we've got it," Winston said. "The meter, I mean. It's—this is where it gets tricky—it's in a lab, like Ray said, but we're not talking a high school science room. We're across the street from its main gate now. Ever heard of Gettering Pharmaceuticals?"

Janine had. Gettering was a national corporation; they didn't supply much over-the-counter stuff, but she'd spent enough time in hospitals to recognize the name. And they did have a facility just outside the city; she drove past it on her visits upstate. But this... "Winston, they're a major company. You don't—"

"Girl, I don't know," Winston began. She heard Ray speak, but couldn't make out his words. Raising his voice over his partner, Winston went on, "Ray's convinced they're up to something shady—the readings don't lie, anyway. They've got the meter. And I can't think of any good reason that they'd have it." His tone indicated he'd tried to come up with one. "No trace of Egon or Pete, but it's possible the biorhythms aren't coming through. This place is a fortress. Electric fences, guards, the works—I bet they bring out the Dobies at night. Ray says there's a chance—pretty small, but it's there—that the fence is interfering with the meter, and they might be inside. And even if not..."

There might be some evidence. Or a clue. Or something. But it was all inside—"Winston..."

"Janine." Ray had reclaimed the phone and slowed his speech to only double normal speed. "We discussed it and we've agreed, we don't have a choice. We need to know what's going on in there. Ulster never worked for Gettering, as far as we could tell. We don't know why he's here now, or why he'd take Egon and Peter here—"

If he indeed had. There had to be another explanation. Something reasonable. Something less insane than this, anyway.

"How're you getting in?" she demanded. "You said there're guards—"

"We've got a plan," Ray told her, in a tone that set off every internal warning bell she had. "We just need your help. If we don't call back in about, um, twenty minutes, can you phone the police? Tell them where we are, and that Gettering's doing something illegal, have them check it out—"

"Just hold it!" she shrieked. "What's this plan? What the hell are you doing?" Breaking into computer systems was one thing; breaking into private, well-guarded facilities was something else completely. "You can't—"

"If we just tell the police and they come with sirens blazing, they might have time to close everything down," Ray informed her, all too rationally. "And it'll take so long to get a warrant... If you just tell them we're trespassing, that'll get them here."

"And get you arrested."

"Thanks, Janine."

"Don't you dare—not without me—" He had hung up. She stared at the phone for nearly a full minute before closing it. By the time she drove there, they'd already be inside; it was the only thing that kept her from speeding there this instant. If she had been annoyed with them before, now she was furious. What right did they have to plot out felonies and leave her out of it?

But someone had to be on the outside, to bail them out. And she was the only one available. Gritting her teeth hard enough to crack a molar, Janine turned her gaze from the townhouse to her wristwatch, and began counting down the minutes until Ray's deadline.

 

* * *

Despite his love of movies, comic books and other such "escapist entertainment," and contrary to his friends' half-serious opinions, Ray Stantz was all too aware of the differences between fiction and reality. Fiction was his video collection, all those safe, exciting films of daring missions and fantastic quests, the heroes always victorious when the credits rolled around. Reality was the tape in their mailbox this morning, a stark black and white image, true but too distant to touch—

He pushed back that thought and everything that went with it. Peter always said it was good that Ray was so open, complimented his ability to express what he felt, how he felt it, not suppressing his emotions as Egon did sometimes, or covering them up, as Peter himself was wont to do. But Ray didn't have to be that way. He preferred it; he liked to be the cheerful one, the optimist, keeping the guys excited and happy even when things got bad. He being himself allowed them to be themselves. But Peter and Egon weren't here to see it, and he couldn't think optimistically. Too much had already gone wrong. For Winston, he tried, if not to be cheerful, at least to keep back the despair. He couldn't do it, not all the way, not as completely as Egon or Peter might, and Winston was worried for him as well as for them. But he tried, focusing on this plan. Keeping his thoughts on their goal, and not what might happen, what they might learn that he so desperately never wanted to hear...

The uniformed guard at the gate, nose buried in the day's paper, barely looked up to wave them through. It wasn't what Ray was expecting; in suspense conspiracy films, the secret labs always had terrifically high security. But they encountered no problems navigating the maze of parking lots, following the increasingly agitated PKE meter. The signal was faint, though distinct, and Ray had his hands full balancing the sensitivity enough to read it, but not so high as to burn out the meter. Winston drove slowly, attending to his short directions and occasionally shooting him looks Ray felt more than heard. Probably a little disturbed by his position—usually Egon would be the one tracking the meter, while Ray speculated on the nature of whatever they were pursuing, and Peter wisecracked or assisted, depending on the urgency of the situation. In the tensest moments, he'd do both, helping as he could, but making light of the darkest circumstances. They might get annoyed with his mouthing off sometimes, but it kept them cool.

More than anything Ray wanted to hear him, leaning over the seat and asking if Ray _really_ knew what he was doing with 'that thing.' And then Egon would debate his less-than-scientific terminology and they'd all take sides, grinning as they argued, no matter how bad what they were heading toward might be.

But they weren't here, and Ray couldn't find the smallest smile in himself. Not now.

The meter flickered. "Stop," he said, repeating it when Winston didn't immediately brake. "Stop, I said!"

"I am," Winston shot back. "Give me a sec, already!" He pulled into the closest parking space, turned off the ignition and sighed. "Sorry, homeboy."

"No, I'm sorry," Ray apologized in return, truly contrite, but he couldn't allow it to distract him. He pointed out the window. "It's coming from there."

On the far corner of the company's grounds, the building was identical to the others, a long, squat, three-story block of beige stone. Blue sky and clouds reflected in the mirror finish of the dark-tinted windows, rendering them opaque, hidden. The touches of brilliant green lawn were incongruous with the stark architecture, but there was a lifeless artificiality to the landscaping which matched the polished, sterile atmosphere. Midafternoon, everyone was at work; the place was quiet, not a person in sight.

Walking up to the main entrance, they hit the buzzer, then rapped on the black glass when that brought no response. In a minute, just before Ray lost his patience, there was a metallic click and the doors slid open. Winston's hand hovered over his thrower, but he refrained from unhooking it. Ray tightened his grip on his PKE meter and marched inside.

If it was serene outside, inside the building it was a veritable tomb. Their footsteps echoed on the burnished tile floor as they strode through a second set of doors and entered the cool, climate-controlled facilities.

At the wide black desk in the foyer, a uniformed man watched them steadily. "Yes?"

"We're the Ghostbusters." Ray showed his identification; the cards weren't government-sanctioned, but they looked official. He tried to adopt the casually assured tone Peter used with clients, but his tongue got tied around his prepared speech. "We're here to bust, um, your ghost, that you reported—"

"We were called," Winston rescued him. "You're got a class five specter in your labs, and we're here to get rid of it before it breaks stuff." He looked marginally surprised at his own dissembling, but continued, "We're on company time and we've got other appointments, so if you could just show us the quickest way in—"

"This is a restricted area," the man told them. "Only authorized personnel are allowed in."

"We're authorized." Winston essayed a smile. "They're...expecting us."

"This is a restricted area," the receptionist droned. "You can't come in unless you're authorized." He shrugged, bent his head down to his desk.

Standing on his toes, Ray saw the brightly illustrated magazine occupying the man's attention. Winston cleared his throat. "Look, man, we've got a job to do."

"Yeah, and so do I." He deigned to glance up at them again. "They pay me to watch this place, so I'm watchin' it."

Ray's and Winston's eyes met in a silent exchange. At another time, Ray might have been amused or excited by how easily they communicated without a word; now he only used it. The message was clear. They needed to get by this man, and Winston knew how.

_You sure? _Ray inquired with a tilt of his head. Not that he doubted Winston's idea, but once they crossed this line there wouldn't be any going back. Considering he had never knowingly been a felon, that probably should have disturbed him more than it did.

Winston didn't nod, only shifted his stance slightly. _Damn sure._ Then he slipped the straps of his pack off his shoulders. It crashed to the floor, and Winston said aloud once the echo had died, "Guy, mind giving us a hand? These things are heavier than they look."

The man, who had looked up again at the noise, frowned, but moved out from behind his desk. Once he was sufficiently distant from any unseen alarm buttons, Ray tackled him. He went down with a squawk and Winston hauled him up by his collar to inform him, "You're going to let us in." He didn't growl or threaten, speaking quite matter-of-factly.

"Like hell—" His wide eyes darted from Ray to Winston. Away from the security of the desk, he appeared much younger, less sure; and something in their faces made him swallow. "I can't, I swear, man." When Winston shook him, not hard, he squealed, "No, you don't get it, I really can't. Only authorized personnel can get in, and I ain't one of them!"

Winston glanced at Ray. "Why don't you check that out while I take care of him?" The man—boy, really—gulped; Ray nodded and headed for the door beside the desk.

His partner shoved the receptionist into his chair and proceeded to tie him up with a couple of bungee cords from Ecto's trunk—a former Eagle scout, Winston had come prepared. Ray heard the man protesting, "Who are you guys? Do you always break into places in those get-ups? You're not the Ghostbusters, I've seen 'em on TV. You don't look anything like them. And aren't there supposed to be four of you?"

"We're working on it," Winston told him, not loudly, but the man snapped his mouth shut. Ignoring him, Zeddemore joined Ray by the door.

The lock was an elaborate electronic affair, complete with card slot and keypad. "Oh, man," Winston muttered. "If he doesn't know the code, how the hell are we supposed to get through—"

Touching the prongs of the PKE meter's antennae to either side of the slot, Ray made an adjustment, turned up the juice, and punched a button on the keypad. The LED went green as the bolt retracted with a click.

"--that?" Winston finished, then shook his head. "Never mind. I ain't even gonna ask where you picked up that one, homeboy."

Ray was just as comfortable not saying. Grabbing his thrower, he pushed open the door. Winston readied his own weapon and hurried after him with a muttered, "Wait up!" Together they entered a long hallway of smooth gray walls, black doors on either side.

"They might know we're in," Ray whispered to Winston. "Short-circuiting the lock could've set off an alarm, and they'll have cameras..."

"The police will be coming, anyway," Winston hissed back. Janine's deadline had arrived and passed. "I didn't tie that guy too tightly. He'll set off an alarm and tell them right where to go— What?" He had seen Ray's face fall.

Looking up from the meter, Ray shook his head. "I'm only getting one set of biorhythms, other than us and the guy out there. They're not here, Winston."

"But they might have been." Winston lifted his thrower. "Let's find out who is here. It might be Ulster." From the grimness in his eyes, he would appreciate the chance to confront the doctor.

No more than Ray himself. The occultist led the way, toward the biorhythms before the missing meter, as a person was a greater threat. They tracked the signal down the hall, through two sets of double doors, which opened automatically upon their approach. The silence of the place was unnerving, and the black doors in the walls, all of which were locked and none labeled. Peter and Egon might have been imprisoned here, behind these walls. Had they found it sooner...

"He's in there," Ray announced at last under his breath, pointing toward one generic door set in the center of the corridor. Impossible to kick down such thick and sturdy metal, but the lock wasn't as complex and therefore less easily bypassed than the entrance's. "We need the key. I can't—"

"So we'll use Pete's method." Winston leveled his thrower. Ray jumped out of the way as the proton beam flung out, exploding the lock in a shower of sparks. By the time the door swung open, Winston was already through it, shouting, "Freeze! Don't move!"

Ray entered. His teammate's thrower was pointed directly at a bald man all in black, crouched over a desk with a gun in hand. Evidently surprise kept him from firing. Ray raised his own thrower and yelled, "Drop it!"

The guard obeyed, at Winston's command kicking the firearm across the floor to them, then sank into his chair. Ray kept his thrower trained on the man as Winston checked him for other weapons, but he couldn't help but stare around.

The small room was dark, lit by the aqua glow of many cathode ray screens, banks of television and computer monitors. Some were black, but many were active, displaying shadowy rooms and vacant hallways. Ray thought he recognized the corridors they had just walked, but if that were so, the man should have seen them approaching. Why had he done nothing?

"Where's Dr. Ulster?" Winston snapped, glaring down at their newest prisoner. "Where's Egon Spengler and Peter Venkman?"

The guard looked at him, then diffidently remarked, "I'm the only one here."

Ray's readings confirmed it, and he suddenly wondered if they might have been mistaken after all. "Winston—"

His friend had had similar thoughts, for he was drawing back from the guard with an uneasy frown. "We know the meter's here..."

But maybe it had been brought to them, or maybe they had bought it, or maybe he had misread the signals... His meter appeared to be working, it had lead them to this man in this room, after all, but what if he had made a mistake, wishing too hard to find any clue? The guard seemed surprised by their trespassing, not upset that they had breached his secret. What if the two men weren't here at all? While they fruitlessly searched here, Ulster might have taken Peter and Egon anywhere, done anything to them—

"Winston, we don't—what if we—"

"We're in the right place, Ray," Winston said, with a strange tightness to his voice. Still holding his thrower, he pointed with his chin behind Ray.

Ray turned and saw the monitor on the wall he stood against, the camera focused on a spotlit center of a dark room. The chair illuminated by the light was empty, but the angle of the shot was identical and the shadows the same as those on the video—only this morning, it had come, but Ray felt as if he had aged a century since then. His memory of Peter in that room hadn't faded, however, and probably never would.

"Where's Ulster?" Winston repeated, his own memory making his tone harsh.

The guard looked at them, not nervously like receptionist, more considering, evaluating his options. He reached a decision, shrugged and said, "Gone. You just missed him."

Blood pounding in his ears at the revelation, Ray grabbed his cellular. It was an off-chance, perhaps, but maybe their only one. "Janine?" She answered before the first ring ended, impatient for any word. He understood her anxiety, but there wasn't time for him to assuage it, only tell her, "Ulster might be coming. Call the police, we can't let him get away. Peter and Egon aren't here now, but they were!" Before she could question him further, he cut the connection, trying to overcome the tides of both urgency and hope suddenly alive within him.

Winston turned to the guard. "The cops are coming here, too. Before they show, why don't you give us a guided tour of this place? Tell us something about it?" And why Peter and Egon were brought here, and most importantly where they were now.

In the movies, they would find out just in the nick of time. Ray cast a glance back at the monitor, the shadowed room and empty chair, and wished with greater fervency than ever before that life would imitate art, that fiction would be reality, just this once.

 

* * *

Only by a great force of will did Janine refrain from screaming at the phone. Ray had disconnected and she knew better than to call him back. No matter how loudly she hollered at the receiver, he was too far away to hear. Instead she debated calling the Pelham police. She had already had it out with the department with jurisdiction over Gettering; it had taken some doing to convince them to send over two cruisers to check the place out. Knowing how the Ghostbusters usually operated, she doubted the police would have much difficulty locating Ray and Winston, and whatever they had found. She did wish her employers were in better standing with the NYPD; it would have made it easier. Hopefully, there would be enough in petty cash to bail them out.

A car pulled into the townhouse's driveway. Janine sat straight up, then wondered if she would be better off staying down, out of sight. But the man who emerged from the black Volvo didn't so much as glance across the street, slamming his door shut and hurrying inside his house. A tall brunet man in a charcoal suit—he fit the general description of Ulster, at any rate.

Eyes never leaving the townhouse, Janine dialed the police and talked fast, not giving the sergeant manning the phone the chance to protest. She explained who she was and the situation in no uncertain terms; they agreed to send one cruiser over to pick Ulster up for questioning.

Two minutes later, it had yet to arrive, and the man left his house and headed back to the garage, carrying a cardboard box. Moving out, and hastily. If he left by the time the police arrived, what were their chances of tracking him down again?

As he struggled with the trunk, Janine climbed out of her own vehicle, shrugged on the proton pack and headed across the street. Busy stowing the carton, he didn't notice her presence until she called, "Kenneth Ulster?"

He whirled, and the shock of angry recognition flying across his square features was all she needed to be certain. "Yeah, I know your real name," she snapped. "What have you done with Egon Spengler and Peter Venkman?"

The man smiled, a vicious, twisted smirk, and then he lunged for her.

She didn't flinch, only fired. The proton beam shot out of the thrower and caught the man in an aura of crackling energy. When it died, he dropped to the asphalt like a sack of flour, limbs twitching slightly. At the lowest setting, a particle beam only briefly paralyzed; Ulster's gray eyes were still open, and the fury in them was, if possible, heightened.

"Sorry," Janine told him with absolutely no sincerity. "I should've warned you I was armed. The police have questions, and so do I. What have you done with Egon and Peter? We know you kidnapped them—why? Where are they?"

Ulster couldn't answer yet, but soon he would be able to speak. Now he only glowered at her impotently, though there was something frightening in his glare all the same. Not insanity but cruelty, a coldness in his eyes she had never seen before, neither in humans nor ghosts. Janine almost shivered, thinking of what he might have done to the two men—anything, judging from that look. Steeling herself against it, she nudged him with her foot.

"You're done now. We're onto you. Ray and Winston found your place at Gettering; the police are there right now."

No response, though he had stilled the involuntary twitching of his limbs. The paralysis was fading; he could manage speech, if he wished. He didn't say anything. "We know you took them, and we're gonna find them, and if anything's happened to them, I'm gonna do the same thing to you, I swear. If you hurt either of them..." Janine bent to look him directly in the icy eyes, and had to blink to keep from turning her head aside entirely. "If you did anything to them...you just better hope the cops get here soon."

Ulster struggled to sit up and Janine shoved him down again; he wasn't strong enough to resist. She planted a high-heeled shoe on his chest to pin him, and said, "You ain't going anywhere. If you try that again, I'll incapacitate you, and not with the thrower." It was an appealing thought. She would have felt no sympathy for this cold-eyed man even if he hadn't been responsible for Egon and Peter's disappearance. Knowing that, it was all she could do not to fall on him now and beat the answers out of him. The temptation might have been too strong to resist had she not heard the wail of approaching sirens.

By the time the cruiser pulled up in front of the house, she had yanked Ulster to his feet. He was a little unsteady, but stood straight, and she dug her nails into his arm to hold him in place. The two officers walked over, and she shoved her captive none too gently into their grasp. They hesitated, but at her order, marched him down to the waiting vehicle.

As they were pushing him into the back seat, he looked up at her, smiling the same heartless smile, and spoke distinctly. His baritone was smooth and low, crueler than his smile. "Ma'am, I don't know who you care for, Venkman or Spengler, but I can assure you that neither of them is worth it. Or rather, _was_ worth it."

It was fortunate for Ulster that they had already handcuffed him into the back, because it took the combined efforts of both officers to keep Janine from clawing out his stone-cold eyes.

 

* * *

Egon had the gun.

He hadn't searched for it until Peter was safely on the ground. Rousing him had been nearly impossible, and his eyes never opened, but Egon had managed to cajole, guide and lower his friend down the ladder. When at last they reached the cement floor, Peter collapsed entirely, folding in on himself like a paper man crumpling. Egon took his pulse, found it slow, and his long breaths lagged, but there was nothing he could do. He removed his jumpsuit and bundled it under Peter's head as a crude pillow; then, frequently glancing back at the limp figure of his friend, he searched in the direction the weapon had been thrown. He found the pistol wedged between two of the broken crates littering the warehouse floor, left as obstacles in this inhuman maze.

After retrieving the gun, Egon scouted the perimeter of the building, and soon concluded there was no escape. Even had the windows been at eye level, they were boarded over, impenetrable; the exits all were barred or chained.

Something indefinable, out of sight and below the threshold of sound, made him hurry back to Peter at a flat run. His friend had shifted, rolled onto his side to pull up his legs in a loose fetal position, eyelids screwed tightly shut and respiration still slow and shallow. Intermittently, he shivered, perhaps with cold, perhaps with something else. Carefully, Egon worked his arms under his shoulders to lift him off the cold floor, cradling him to still the shaking as best he could, murmuring empty words of comfort and apology. He couldn't tell if Peter heard any of them, let alone understood, but gradually, he relaxed into sleep, or something deeper.

Egon kept his arms around him, setting the gun down close to his hand, in reach when they returned. The guards he could threaten. Ulster... If Ulster dared show himself...

He had never felt such numbing, overwhelming rage toward any individual before, human or spirit. The annoyance of narrow-minded scientists deriding his work, the provocation of specters malicious and dangerous only because they could exert such power—all faded into obscurity beside this passion. It was like a knife in his heart, so sharp it pierced through to his mind and cut emotion free of reason, and every tremor of his friend's body against his chest drove that blade a little deeper.

"Shh, Peter, you'll be all right..." Mindless, meaningless words, when Peter was too far gone to hear them. Egon would give near anything to join him there, breach that barricade and enter his nightmares, fight his demons at his side. Anything, that he wouldn't have to face them alone.

He had thought that the cages were the worst, watching but divided from his friend by iron bars, but that was nothing compared to what had torn through him seeing Peter so high on that catwalk. Five meters above the cement and swaying; a single step further and he would have fallen from the platform, and the injuries he might have sustained...

Egon's thoughts circled endlessly, and every time they covered that memory, his rage heightened, until every creak of the warehouse settling around them made his hand twitch toward the gun. Cold-blooded murder he could never justify, but self-defense, and greater still, defense of a friend... He had promised Peter he would protect him. He would never willingly break that vow, and assured him of this, his whisper echoing through the empty building.

Then Peter groaned, a faint querulous noise, and shifted in his hold, his first deliberate motion in hours. Egon's heart skipped a beat. "Peter? Peter, can you hear me? Are you—"

"I..." Heavy lids slowly lifted, and the dark eyes beneath studied him hazily. "E-Egon?"

"I'm right here," Egon told him for the hundredth time, and he would repeat it a thousand more if it were necessary to reach him. "I've got you. How—how do you feel?"

"Lousy..." Peter frowned, realizing that didn't effectively cover it, and expanded, "Morning after a year-long bender." Struggling to sit up, he accepted Egon's hand against his back to support him, crossing his arms over his stomach with a grimace.

Egon had to swallow a lump in his throat to respond, trying to match his tone. "It... hasn't been quite that long." Though it felt much longer, far too long since those green eyes had met his, foggy but aware. Minutes before, he could barely feel anything beyond his rage against the man responsible; now he had to fight to back tears. Mood shifts due to stress and fatigue, the last analytical bastion in his mind pronounced, but labeling the maelstrom was not enough to overcome it.

Though drained, Peter saw the storm rocking him. He twisted around to drape his arms over Egon's shoulders and squeezed with all the strength he had. Little enough, but Egon returned the embrace with equal feeling and greater power, pressed his friend close and ascertained as he had been unable to before that this was indeed him, alive, in mind and soul as well as body. Peter gave him time to realize this before he pulled back, again folded his arms around his torso and leaned his head against Egon's chest, mumbling, "Thought I told you to go, Spengs..."

Egon's arms tightened around Peter involuntarily, though the enervated man had made no motion to retreat and probably wouldn't have been able to as it was. "I wouldn't leave you," Egon responded, honestly and without regret.

"Idiot." Peter rocked back, tilting his head up toward him. "Listen to me next time. Makes things easier."

Egon didn't try to argue; maybe later, when this all was over, but not now, not here. Instead he said, rationally, as Peter would expect from him, "We should try to escape. Do you think you can walk?"

Peter rolled his eyes, easier than a shrug, but just as eloquent, and Egon felt something ease inside him, a painfully twisted knot unwind as his friend spoke. "Gimme a break, Egon. Feels like I've been mostly dead all day."

Weak as it was, that casual tone put right so many wrongs that neither the weakness nor the denial fazed Egon. "We can wait, as long as you need. If they come, I have the gun."

Peter nodded. "Least you kept it." He blinked, squinted up at the lights and then across the wide floor, commenting, "Hope they figure out where we are, get here soon." Every word recovered a bit of his accustomed poise, sounded more like him.

Egon had no need to ask who he meant. He had never forgotten Ray and Winston. In the back of his mind, the assurance that they would find them was a fixed constant. His only concern was whether it would be in time, and his fears turned now to how long it had already been.

Peter's thoughts had taken a similar track, for he quietly added, "Hope they know we're still around..." They wouldn't stop searching, not until they had irrefutable proof that it was pointless to continue—and Ray would refute nearly anything. But that didn't mean they wouldn't lose hope, for all they would keep looking, and Egon would do much to spare his friends that pain.

"How...long has it been?" Peter asked.

"Since I was brought to this building, I estimate between six and eight hours," Egon reported. "Since we..." He trailed off, noticing Peter's eyes widen a little, then narrow in concentration. Quietly, cautiously, he asked, "Peter, what do you remember of today?"

"I can't..." Peter dropped his head between his knees, his shoulders jerking in convulsively, but before Egon could touch him, his head came up again. "This morning, woke up here, and they gave me—gave me more of the drug. Not Ulster, I didn't see him. The guards. They injected..." He shuddered, more reflex than emotion because his expression didn't alter. "Shot me up, then put the gun on the floor and walked out. I didn't— By the time I realized what was going on, they were gone. But what they told me—I knew you were around here, and I knew I had to find you, before... I'd guessed, from what Ulster said, what they were trying, but I didn't think, I didn't believe...until they left the gun.

"I found you, I gave it to you, and then I ran... I don't remember..." His eyes skewed up to Egon, the undisguised horror in them so vivid that Egon felt the knot return, tighter than before. That vulnerable fear was little like Peter, for all that the emerald gaze was only his. "God, Egon, did I—I'm so sorry, if I...if I tried—I'm sorry..."

"Peter." He could let this go no further. Gripping his arms to keep him from drawing away, Egon told him clearly, "You did not hurt me, and you have nothing, _nothing_," deepening his voice for emphasis, "to apologize for. Do you understand?" He waited for Peter's nod and relaxed his grip, but kept his hands on his shoulders. "The only one who must apologize is Ulster, for what he did to you—"

"To us." Peter's eyes flashed, a hint of green lightning under the clouds, restoring some measure of Egon's equilibrium. "You were in the cage next to mine. I remember that. Most of it." He sighed, a long rattling exhalation, passing his hands over his temples with a wince. "They haven't come back yet?"

"Not in hours," Egon confirmed. "And...I believe the experiment is ended. This phase of it, at any rate. Yet I've seen no sign..."

"Maybe it's the gun," Peter suggested tiredly. "Or maybe—" He clenched his teeth against a sudden wave of nausea, ground out, "Maybe you're right."

Egon was at his side in an instant, his pulse again pounding triple time, and Peter's, when he wrapped his fingers around his friend's wrist, was beating faster still. "What's wrong?" he demanded. "What do you mean, I'm right?"

Peter straightened, the tendons of his neck corded with the strain. "Maybe the experiment is over," he explained. "Maybe they're not coming back, because they've got other ways to finish it. These experiments only end one way, you know."

Egon could too easily imagine, and everything in him that had relaxed constricted again, tighter than before, excruciating and horrified. "No," he said, shaking his head, not in response but denial.

Peter answered all the same. "Yeah. You know what Ulster's capable of; they can't let us go, and risk exposure. They've done it before. I've seen one ghost; I know she wasn't just in my mind. One of their victims. She—" He frowned, reached out his hand to clutch at something he couldn't see. "She was here, and stopped me...kept me from..." His brow furrowed as he sought that glimpse of memory.

Egon distracted his attention before he found it. "What will they do?" he asked, though he already understood. "What have they done?"

Peter offered a twisted version of his typical grin, faint but real, despite the whiteness of his face between the dark hair and dark jumpsuit, and the taut transparency of his drawn cheeks. "Withdrawal's gonna be hell," he said.

"I'm here," Egon told him instantly. "I'm not going to leave."

"Was hoping you'd say that," Peter replied, closing his eyes.

 

* * *

After four hours in the small interrogation room, Ray was almost literally climbing the walls. Winston was merely grateful there were walls, rather than bars; they could have been thrown in a holding cell, but in deference to their current status as city celebrities they had been ushered into this room, given coffee, and politely asked to wait while their arrest paperwork was processed.

They hadn't seen an officer since. Winston had knocked on the door and demanded his phone call, to no response and he wasn't sure who'd he call as it were. Peter knew all the lawyers; Winston thought he remembered the name of the firm that handled their patent issues and major lawsuits, but wasn't sure if they'd be open now, after six. Janine would know how to handle it, but that depended on her knowing where they were—and her good graces, which were not guaranteed, after breaking an entering without her.

Before Ray paced himself right through the floor, Winston blocked his path and pushed him into one of the folding chairs. "Sit," he commanded. "Tell me about that class three."

They had gotten only a brief look at the facility before the police had arrived to haul them and the guard to the closest city precinct station, but in that time Ray had found traces of a ghostly presence. While biorhythms didn't last, ectoplasm left a residual energy that could be picked up after the ghost itself departed, sometimes days later.

Now Ray sighed, fidgeting with an elastic string from his pocket, since the police had taken their packs and the PKE meter. "We've gone over this too many times already. There were signs of a class three entity, probably a fixed repeater, all over the place. The strongest were in that room." The guard had unlocked the door at their request, and they had been inside when the police arrived. The two cages, large enough to be designed to hold people, had probably influenced the cops' decision to arrest the guard as well.

Among the cages Ray had tracked the presence of the ghost. "But it wasn't there," he explained again. "It couldn't have been gone for more than twelve hours, but I don't know what happened to it. Fixed repeaters don't usually disperse on their own, but they don't leave a location unless they have a really good reason."

"Is it possible..." It had occurred to Winston the moment he had seen the cages, who might have occupied them previously. If their friends had been there... "Maybe Pete did his psychology thing, and it did disperse." One of Peter's talents was his ability to understand people, even dead ones. As a Ghostbuster, he used that skill on occasion to help ghosts leave rather than capturing them, convincing them to move on or helping them accomplish what held them in the realm of the living. Even imprisoned in a cage, Winston had no trouble picturing his teammate talking a ghost into a peaceful departure.

Ray shook his head, not evincing any of the enthusiasm he should have had for such a prospect. "There just isn't any way to tell, but if it went away, and we could find it...it might be evidence against Ulster."

If they would accept testimony from a spirit in any mortal court of law. It wasn't as far-fetched as it could be. Class threes were former humans, not nether entities like Slimer but classic ghosts, what remained of a person after the body died. And fixed repeaters often hung around the place of their deaths; the ghost might very well be of a victim of Ulster.

That it was impossible to know, without seeing the ghost itself, how recent a victim it was, turned Winston's guts to ice. He shivered, almost happier they hadn't located the ghost before they were arrested. If it had come to them with Pete's face, or spoken in Egon's deep voice...

He was trying to think of something that would distract Ray from that train of thought when the door to the room swung open and an astonishingly large man entered. For the first time in Winston's memory, Inspector Frump looked neither annoyed nor smug; he just looked tired. His close-set pale eyes, focusing on the two Ghostbusters, lacked the accustomed spark of irritation.

Ray shot to his feet. "You've got to let us out of here, please—"

"We've got a phone call coming," Winston reminded him simultaneously. "We've been cooling our heels long—"

"You can save your quarter on that call," Frump growled over both of them. "We're letting you clowns out. Gettering's dropping all charges."

That explained the absence of smug satisfaction, but not his dulled gaze. "Why?" Winston demanded, suspicious. Ray feinted left and right, trying to slip past the detective out the open door.

"Because they want to forget this happened," Frump snapped, ignoring Ray's attempts, but his bulk effectively blocked the exit. "They don't want to call attention to whatever the hell was happening in that building."

The inspector doffed his rumpled fedora and wiped the line of sweat off his wide brow. "Far as we can tell, they didn't know themselves. Gettering was being paid an exorbitant fee to lease that one lab." Winston raised his eyebrows at the Egon-like adjective, but paid close attention as Frump continued to explain. "They don't have any records of the company using it. Part of the deal was that they didn't inquire—they kept it off-limits, no inspections, had a concealed driveway out back and a man posted in front—the poor SOB you jumped. He didn't know nothing. The one guard from inside, that guy knows something, but he's not talking.

"What we got is enough to make Gettering want to shut their eyes and stick their fingers in their ears. There's plenty of pharmaceuticals in that building, all right, but most of 'em aren't legal and half of 'em aren't identified. We'd figure it's a designer drug lab, one of the local suppliers, but that doesn't explain those cages...or the videos."

Ray and Winston both jumped, then looked at each other, Winston swearing to himself that they had been so obvious. Even without instructions, he would as soon not bring the morning's tape into it. Frump must have noticed their reaction, but he didn't comment, other than to grunt and continue. "They're all in locked drawers and two of 'em exploded—I'm talking fire—when we tried to jimmy 'em, but we've salvaged something and what it shows ain't pretty. The computers were all wiped, and any hard files are in code. We've pulled a few names, maybe just more guards. The heads were scientists, but the guard's sealing his lips, except to tell us they're long gone by now."

"What about Ulster—?" Ray began.

Frump glared at him, but his ire subsided under the naked desperation in Ray's wide eyes. "I'm gettin' to him," he said gruffly. "First, there's the main lab. We found one of those gizmos you're always waving around, not the blaster things, the one with the rabbit ears—"

"The PKE meter," Winston said, and admitted, "That's how we found the place, tracking it. It was stolen when Pete and Egon...were taken."

The inspector subjected him to a long, shrewd look, then heaved a sigh. "Yeah, we've got it now, but you can have it back. There was something else, too, in a desk drawer." He reached a massive paw into his wrinkled jacket, withdrawing two small pieces of cloth, red and white, trimmed with black.

Taking them, Winston instantly recognized the patches cut from the sleeves of Egon and Peter's jumpsuits. One of Ray's hands reached up to his shoulder and felt his own symbol, the other went to his mouth and Winston heard him swallow. He had to gulp back a lump in his own throat the size of a mountain, met Frump's gaze steadily and asked, "Did you find anything else?"

The detective shook his head in a ponderous negative. "It's enough to hold the guard, though. But not Ulster—yeah, we got him. Your secretary did, anyway. Gotta admit, that's one feisty...woman. But he hasn't said one word to us. We got him as a material witness, but he's posted bail and we can't hold him any more than we can hold you. You're all walking now. If Ulster knows anything about Venkman or Spengler, it's leaving with him." With that dour pronouncement, he stepped to the side, following them out the door.

Janine met them at the main desk. They assured her that they had not suffered undue police brutality—after pulling their stunt at Gettering without her, she wouldn't have objected to a little brutality—and Winston signed the paperwork as directed.

Bent over the desk, he felt more than saw Ray stiffen, the air suddenly charged with tension. Looking up, Winston followed his steady stare and Janine's narrow glare across the lobby, to a man at the door. He was taller than the two officers escorting him, brown-haired and square-jawed, features broader than Peter's, though the cheekbones and nose were similar. But where the psychologist's eyes flashed that striking green, this man's were solid gray, a gaze hard and cold as steel, visible even across the room.

Winston had noticed him once before, only a few nights prior, talking with Peter and Egon—the last time he had seen either man. He didn't need Janine's muttered confirmation, "Ulster."

Ray said nothing, heading toward the doctor as if propelled along a track in the floor. Abandoning the forms, Winston caught up and fell into step beside his friend; Janine took position on his other side. Three abreast, they confronted the man, but it was Ray who spoke, quietly and calmer than Winston could have managed. "Hi, Ken."

Ulster must have heard them approaching, but he turned slowly, raised his brows in simulated surprise. "Hello—Stantz, isn't it? It's been a long time. Good speech."

The two officers accompanying him exchanged glances. "I'll be all right, gentlemen," the doctor said. "You can't detain me as it is." He nodded as they headed off, then returned his attention to the Ghostbusters, eyes flicking to Janine. "So you are with them."

"I'm their secretary," Janine spat, in a tone more threatening than informative.

"I should press charges, but I'm willing to let it be." Shifting to Winston, "You're Zeddemore, I take it."

Nights in Antarctica had to be warmer than that doctor's gaze. Winston refused to shiver under it. "I'm Winston Zeddemore," he confirmed. "And you're Kenneth Ulster."

"Ken Smith," the doctor corrected with a diffident shrug, "though Stantz knew me under my first name. You've made some...interesting friends, Stantz." Standing at ease with his arms at his side, though there was a hint of challenge in his tone. "And Venkman and Spengler complete this motley crew?"

"Usually," Ray said. Winston shot him a sharp glance, hearing how close his voice was to breaking, and backed up to stand beside again.

"But they're missing now." Ulster shed no crocodile tears. "Well, I'm sure there's many people interested in pursuing ghosts and shadows—"

Winston's hands curled into fists entirely independent of his will. Janine stepped forward, her high heel cracking smartly on the tile.

"Would you like to see our place?" asked Ray brightly. "If you looked over our equipment, you'd see we're serious, and it's really interesting."

Ulster's smile would have been a sneer on the lips of any man less cold-blooded. "I'm afraid—" he began.

Only to be interrupted by Inspector Frump's sizable shadow falling over them, two officers dwarfed at his side. "Here's your stuff," the flatfoot growled, and the policemen handed over two proton packs and two PKE meters to the Ghostbusters. "Now get out of here. And why don't you heroes give this guy a ride, since his car's elsewhere?"

"Sure, Inspector," Winston agreed, buckling the pack's belt around his waist. "Coming, Doctor?"

Ulster coldly regarded the detective, the Ghostbusters, and their proton packs each in turn, then nodded stiffly. Winston opened the door and gestured them all out, Janine leading and Ray following the other scientist.

The last one in line, Winston thought he saw one of Frump's small eyes open and shut in a wink as they walked onto the evening streets. Must have been a trick of the light; the inspector had no love of the Ghostbusters, for all he cared more for the law. But no cops accompanied them to Janine's car. She drove; the three men squeezed into the back, a tight fit, but Ray wasn't to be unglued from Ulster's side, and Winston refused to leave him alone with the doctor. Ulster's iciness was tempered when he looked at Ray with a cool contempt—warmer than anything else he exhibited—and more unnervingly, a pleasure, curling up his thin lips the slightest degree. As if he were enjoying their unease—reveling in it, in the frustration and pain clear in all their expressions.

The ride should have been silent, frozen by Ulster's frigid stare, but Ray chattered the entire way to the firehall, his voice shaky, going on about their work, their equipment, ghosts and Tobin's Spirit Guide. He never touched on a subject long enough to say anything about it, and he never mentioned Egon or Peter once.

Until Janine pulled into the garage, and they all had emerged. Ulster stretched his legs, glanced around and remarked, "This business must be profitable. You're fortunate, Stantz; so few of us manage to make a living doing what we enjoy, though it's simpler if one's interests lie outside of pure science—"

That was as far as he got before Ray grabbed his collar and slammed him into Ecto-1's door. The Ghostbuster was half a foot shorter than the biochemist and Ulster was no lightweight, but Ray pinned him with one hand on his throat, the other flipping the switch to charge the proton pack he still wore. Shifting to grip the thrower with both hands, he pressed the tip under Ulster's chin, forcing the other scientist's head up.

When he spoke, his voice was level, not trembling; nor were his hands as his finger hovered over the weapon's trigger. "Where are Egon and Peter?"

Not a tremor, but he didn't sound anything like Ray. Winston stared at the auburn-haired stranger, Janine at his side blinking rapidly behind her glasses.

Ulster, too, must have noticed the difference, because for the first time his icy tone held a hint of some emotion, indefinable but present. "I don't know—"

"You do," Ray told him. "You took them, three days ago, and you took them somewhere else, before we found the facility. Where are they now, Kenny?"

"You're no threat, Stantz," Ulster rumbled. "Your secretary already used one of these devices on me. They're stunners, some kind of taser—"

"They're nuclear-powered, high-energy proton stream throwers," Ray informed him, "which Egon and I designed years ago. We use them to catch ghosts, or destroy them if we need to. Janine's was set at the lowest power. This one is at maximum."

Faster than the eye could follow, he swung the thrower down and around, took aim and fired. Caught in the rippling energy current, the chair behind Janine's desk glowed for a split second, then exploded into an infinity of glittering points of light.

The beam snapped off, and before the fine dust had dimmed, the thrower was pointed at Ulster's chest. "This pack is at full power," Ray said calmly; he might have been reporting the amount of gas in Ecto's tank. "At full power, a high-energy stream can be sustained for about twenty minutes. Where are Egon and Peter?"

Leaden eyes flickered from the thrower's muzzle to Ray's face, and then stayed fixed there, mesmerized. When Ulster spoke, the emotion was again absent, his baritone completely monotone. "They're at another facility. I don't know the address."

Ray drew back, setting his stance, and the scientist's shoulders hunched minutely. His features contorted in an manner Winston barely recognized, then he hissed, like a cornered rattler, "It's a warehouse in Brighton." Fear, that was what twisted across his face, only an instant, but too intense to be faked. The emotion proved him human, and that was almost more shocking than its display. "Brighton, New York, upstate."

For the first time, Ray's hands quivered, as they lowered the thrower. Ulster continued to glare into his eyes, snarling, "That's where they are—or were, at least. You can find the place, but Spengler's dead already, and if Venkman isn't, he's wishing he were—"

Winston wasn't consciously aware of drawing back his fist, but it didn't matter, because Ray was a step ahead of him. Pete wasn't the only one who could throw a punch, Winston barely had time to note, before the blow connected. Ray must have bruised his knuckles on Ulster's chin, but he didn't flinch, and the crack of the doctor's head against Ecto's roof made it worthwhile. Stunned, the man slid down the side of the vehicle, blinking up in bemusement at his assailant. Ray stared down at him in return, absently flexing his right hand, still grasping the thrower in his left.

"Get the criminal trap," Winston instructed Janine, referring to a memento from their brief stint as crime-busters, a trap configured to restrain living humans. "Keep him here, Pete and Egon might be able to testify against him. Come on, Ray, we gotta go." He shoved his teammate into Ecto, then made sure Ulster was secure in the glowing enclosure. Janine had a proton pack as back-up; he wouldn't escape. Though if looks could kill, that gray gaze would have laid waste to the city.

She thrust Winston's cell phone at him as he climbed into the driver's seat. "Call me as soon as you find anything."

"Scout's honor," he promised, and Janine leaned through the window and pecked his cheek. He gunned the engine and shifted gears, and she stepped back as Ecto-1 roared out of the firehall, siren screaming.

Ray didn't open his mouth until they had crossed the bridge out of Manhattan and hit the highway. Curled against the door, the PKE meter untouched in his lap, he stared out the window, watching the skyline diminish behind them.

"I know the way to Brighton," Winston offered. "It's not even an hour, if this traffic holds."

Ray had no comment; Winston continued on, filling the void his friend was leaving. "You know he was lying through his teeth. He'd have said anything to get to us. If they were dead, he wouldn't have been so reluctant to tell us where to go." But Ulster had admitted it, which meant either they were on a wild goose chase—which Winston doubted, recalling the doctor's expression—or he had only wanted to delay as long as possible.

Although they were already fifteen miles over the limit, he changed to the left lane and put the pedal flat on the floor.

Bracing himself against the acceleration, Ray grabbed the meter, relaxed again as their speed evened out. After a few minutes he asked, "What are we going to do if we don't find them?" Still gazing out the window as they whipped past the other cars, his voice was barely louder than a heartbeat. "I...I almost fired. The pack, I mean. I almost fired the stream, before he even told us where to go." He exhaled, sinking further into the corner. "What would we do?"

One hand on the wheel, Winston reached across the seat to grasp his teammate's shoulder. He wished he could do more, but he was no psychologist. He didn't say anything, because he didn't have anything to say. Except inside, where he addressed another friend: _Pete, we need you. We're coming for you and Egon, and you better be waiting up for us._

 

* * *

Egon found the gun altogether too well-fitted to his hand, his fingers sliding over its grip with unconscionable familiarity. He didn't put it down; one arm was around Peter's limp body, supporting his head, and the other curled underneath him, keeping the weapon ready, but concealed. Perhaps they didn't know he had it. Perhaps they wouldn't realize he held it now, and Ulster would enter to gloat a final time.

When Peter had still been awake, it had been easy to block the anger, concern necessitating discipline as he gave whatever comfort he could. But as Peter slipped with frightening alacrity from that briefly aware, wrenchingly normal state, back to the confusion of the hallucinations, and then further still into unconsciousness, Egon lost that control.

Peter's thoughts about withdrawal had been all too accurate, the drug leaving his system in turmoil, unable to right itself after the prolonged imbalance. The chemical must still be in his blood, but its passing as much as its presence affected him. But this quickly—the effects should not have hit so fast. Unless Peter was right, and Ulster had specifically designed it to take the victim's life after running its course.

The tremors wracking him had become a constant shaking, almost convulsions. Egon held him as he clenched his jaw against it, and then he went limp, abruptly still. But breathing. His respiration and heartrate were both too slow, but unchanging, Egon thought, prayed. As constant as the silent warehouse around them, the lights shining whether it were day or night, no shadows dark enough to hide within.

During that eternity, he surreptitiously picked up the gun, shifting Peter in his arms as a pretense, speaking as if trying to wake him. His friend didn't stir, and Egon lost his voice, but he held the weapon, and knew he would see Ulster through the red miasma of rage.

The shred of reason left in him knew that revenge wasn't what he required, knew that all he needed to dispel the anger was for Peter to speak again, prove himself well. But Ulster might be the key to that, if he had an antidote. If he did not...

A low rattle echoed across the floor. Egon listened intently, and dismissed it as the building settling around them. It was colder; perhaps night was falling outside. His hands were numb, but if he concentrated, he could feel the weight of the gun in his grasp and Peter's shoulders moving under his arm with each small exhalation.

Egon stopped breathing himself when he heard it, soft but distinctive, resounding through the empty warehouse. Over Peter's faint respiration, footsteps, the unmistakable cadence of another human presence. He tightened his grasp on the gun, flexed his index finger over the trigger.

Two people, he identified, heading toward them, but stealthily, walking with caution. He tensed, preparing himself. When they came into view, rounding a crate ten feet away, Egon reacted to the motion instinctively and had drawn the gun before they looked in his direction. But the command he had been about to issue died on his lips, and his hand dropped, the weapon slipping from his deadened fingers.

It had to be a trick, a hallucination. Too many hours in this silent, empty building; or Ulster drugging him unawares, trace amounts in his food, or an odorless gas pumped through the ventilation. Little wonder Peter had reacted to his visions so violently, if they were as vivid as this, as convincing, but this could not be real—

"_Egon!_"

Ray's cry broke through all logic and conviction, for there was no possible way that any figment of his mental processes could carry the joy and anguish and excitement bound in a single word. Only Ray's voice could produce such a chord, and only Ray's eyes could light up so brightly, for all the dark shadows under them.

Beside him, Winston stared across the floor, thrower ready, but not aimed at them—prepared for a trap, and he would not allow Ray walk into one unaware, though he couldn't help but take a step toward them himself. "Egon? Peter? Is it safe?"

"You came," Egon gasped, unable to tear his eyes away from his teammates. But he shook Peter's shoulders. "Peter, they found us—"

He doubted they could hear his hoarse voice, and he had made no guarantees of safety, but Ray was suddenly pelting across the floor, sliding to his knees beside them. "Oh, gosh, Peter—Egon, is...is he—" His eyes, shimmering with tears, glistened darkly in his round, white face as he clasped one of Peter's hands, pressing his fingers to his wrist.

"He's alive," Egon whispered, "but he won't wake up—you came—"

"'Course we came." Winston crouched at their other side, taking Peter's free arm to perform the same check as Ray. "We've been looking all over for you guys—God." The forced humor drained from his voice as he took in his friends' condition, and an anger too familiar to Egon darkened his tone. "What'd Ulster do to you—what'd he do to Pete?"

"You know—" Egon shook his head. Of course they must know, to have found this place. "He—he did nothing to me. He wanted— He tested Peter, gave him the drug, to make him— It's withdrawal now. I don't know how long he's been unconscious, I lost track—" He realized his voice was shaking, but he couldn't stop it, any more than he could stop himself from shivering.

Winston's strong arm wrapped around his shoulders, calming the shudders. He tightened his own hold around Peter and stared down at his friend's still face, willing him to wake, hear their voices, know they had come. "They're here—"

Over his bowed head, he heard Winston. "Egon, you're freezing. I think you're in shock. He's in shock, Ray. We gotta get them to the hospital."

"Peter?" Ray's voice wasn't any steadier than his own. "Peter, can you hear us? We're getting you out of here."

Of course there wasn't a response. Winston bent over and slipped his arms under Peter's limp form, lifting him up. Egon grasped him closer in automatic protest, but Ray stopped him. "It's okay, Egon, Winston's got Peter. Ecto's right outside, we have to get you to it."

The brown-haired man slack in his arms, Winston pushed to his feet. One of Peter's hands dangled down and Egon reached out and grasped it, struggling to rise with them. With the sudden motion, his legs screamed pins and needles, shaky and threatening to give, but Ray ducked to support him, slinging one arm around the taller man's back and the other against his chest. Accepting the necessary aid, Egon draped his free arm over Ray's shoulders as he lurched after Winston, not releasing Peter's cold, flaccid hand.

The walk across the warehouse floor took forever, but nothing stopped them, not a sign of a black-clothed guard or Ulster. At last they stepped through the doorway into a cooler dusk, the open air stirred by a light breeze. He blinked up at the dark sky. Through the angles of shadowy buildings, the moon glowed a hazy yellow behind the clouds. Glancing back, he saw the open door, hanging obliquely from one hinge, the surrounding frame charred and warped. He wondered vaguely how could he have missed the sound of the blast, and then Ray was ushering him into Ecto's broad back seat. Climbing in after him, Ray cradled Peter's shoulders, his legs over Egon's knees. Winston took the wheel and the vehicle jerked into motion, leaping forward and veering onto the street.

Ray reached over to brace Egon. "He's gonna be okay," he said, cheerfully for all his cheeks were wet.

In front, steering one-handed, Winston took out a cell phone and hit speed-dial, spoke into it rapidly, "We got them, Janine, both of them. Ulster lied, they're alive. They're not doing too great, but they're alive!" And would remain so, if he had any say in it; Egon couldn't recall his level-headed teammate ever sounding so savagely adamant.

But he was hearing him again, when he had begun to doubt he ever would, and Ray's hand on his arm was a touch he had thought he might not feel again, and Winston was conversing with Janine... Egon sagged back against the seat, utterly spent, between the hope he no longer needed to cling to and the relief he hadn't dared think he would experience. If only Peter were aware to realize it. He had to awaken. Peter wouldn't let Ulster win. Not now. Not when they had been found, not when they were together again.

"We're with you, Peter," he breathed, and heard Ray say the same. _We're all here with you. And none of us will let you go._

 

* * *

None of the Ghostbusters argued with the hospital staff. They simply ignored them. Winston tried to explain the circumstances as best he could, but was in no mood for it himself. While most of the ERs in the city proper were familiar with them, the nurses at the Brighton hospital persisted in trying to remove them, going so far as to summon security.

It didn't do them any good. Egon, for all he had been unable to walk out of the warehouse under his own power, stood now like a statue in the ICU, immutable, unmovable, his unwavering gaze fixed on the still body of Peter Venkman as the doctors gathered around. Beside him Ray was an equally resistant rock, focused on the same sight, standing close enough to the physicist that their shoulders rubbed. Egon might have been leaning on Ray a little, not quite as sturdy as he seemed. Didn't matter; the staff could call in the entire NYPD and they still wouldn't get them out of here, short of opening fire and dragging away the corpses.

Winston told the nurses as much and returned to Egon's other side, in case his friend required the support. And because he needed it himself. He looked sidelong at the tall blond, glasses pushed up his nose and blue eyes stark with the intensity of his concentration. Hard to believe that only an hour before, Winston had seriously wondered if he would ever lay eyes on him again.

His presence confirmed, Winston's attention turned inexorably to his other lost teammate, and every reassurance which rose in him seeing Egon was dashed again. Peter hadn't moved once of his own volition, and the physicians worked over him diligently, discussing in low voices. Winston stepped closer, until he bumped Egon's side, and he put an arm around the taller man to lay his hand on Ray's shoulder. The occultist glanced over to him; Egon's eyes never shifted from Peter.

None of this was right. Once he and Ray found them, they were supposed to have cheered and slapped five and headed back to the firehall, to visit Janine and deal with Ulster. Egon should have congratulated their successful search, Peter grinning as he asked them what had taken so long. They shouldn't be here now, in this hospital, waiting...

He didn't know what was worst, these past few days, when they hadn't known what had happened, or now, when they knew all too well. Peter's face was ashen behind the oxygen mask, and try as he might, Winston couldn't shake the memory of carrying him from the warehouse, how limply he had hung in his arms, like a dead thing, or something never alive, a mannequin, except for his shallowest breaths. Fragile—it was a word Winston wouldn't have ever thought of applying to Peter Venkman, not in a thousand years, but his friend had never seemed so vulnerable, so far lost.

He couldn't get the memory out of his head, and he would never forget that first sight of both of them, Egon hunched over Peter, the physicist's face as white as the man's he guarded, expression blank, but his eyes agonized. Alone, for how long? And then there was the gun... Winston had seen Egon drop it, and had picked it up when he had lifted Peter. It was in Ecto's glove compartment now. What the hell was that about? What was any of this about—what had Ulster put them through?

Questions would have to wait, for neither Egon nor Peter was in any condition right now to answer them. At least, his and Ray's would have to wait; one of the doctors approached to ask, "I have some questions, but you really shouldn't be here. Why don't we go to the waiting room—"

"We can't leave him," replied Egon, looking at him over the doctor's shoulder. "He can't be alone."

"It's unlikely he realizes anyone is here," the doctor began, then broke off. Maybe he saw their expressions; maybe he heard the desperation beneath the certainty in Egon's low voice. At any rate, he only sighed. "All right. You told us we're dealing with drug withdrawal—from what, exactly? What was he on? His reactions—"

"I don't know the exact compound," Egon said flatly. "You wouldn't know it, anyway. It's a hallucinogen, which induces psychotic delusions—"

"Hallucinogens aren't addictive," protested the doctor, "and how much of this—"

"I don't know the dosages. And if it's not withdrawal, then treat it like a poison, because that's what it is. It might have been designed to kill—" Egon broke off, jaw working as he fought for control. Ray patted his back and Winston stepped in front of him to confront the doctor.

"Listen, man, we don't know, okay? Is there anything you can do—"

"We're doing everything we can," the doctor told them wearily. "It would help if we had some idea what we're up against. Overdoses can be tricky, and we're also dealing with dehydration and malnutrition. What happened to him?"

Winston looked back at Egon, but he wasn't talking and might not have even heard. "I don't know. I wish the hell I did."

He shivered again, saw Ray do likewise, and then, as the doctor returned to confer with his colleagues, it occurred to him that his reaction was not a mere result of his feelings. He was reacting to a chill that had passed through him, a brief freezing draft—and he recognized that sensation; after so many years as a Ghostbuster, it was unmistakable.

"Guys," he murmured, "there's something here—"

Ray gasped, probably realizing the sensation, but it was Egon who replied aloud. "A ghost—it's here? It's with us?" His eyes went wide behind the round lenses. "Peter said he saw— I believed him, but I didn't— Raymond, your PKE meter!"

He rapped out the command and Ray instantly obeyed, whipping out the instrument. In a moment, he looked up from the meter to stare around the ward. "It's here, it's right here. Pretty weak, but the readings are steady. It's the class three, Winston, the same one I got the trace of before."

"Pete saw it?" Winston demanded. "Is it dangerous? Should I get a pack or a trap?" If it went after Peter, in his precarious condition—

Egon didn't seem to hear him, and didn't question Ray's report, only gripped his arm, pressing, "Where is it?"

Ray pointed directly in front of them. "Right there, I think. It's not in the visible spectrum, maybe it's not strong enough—"

Releasing his arm, Egon took an unsteady step forward, gaze focused on the empty air Ray had indicated. His mouth opened several seconds before he found his voice. Then he swallowed and said, "We know you're there, we detect your presence. Can you hear me? I know you've been with us for the last few days, watching us. Our friend could see you, although I didn't realize it initially.

"Please—if you can hear me, if you are able—help us, help him now. Before, you got through to him, I know you did—when he was on the catwalk, with the gun."

Winston blinked, glanced over to Ray to see if any of that had registered, but Ray was concentrating so hard on Egon that Winston couldn't tell. Egon continued his plea, "I saw him address you—he heard you then. If there's anything you can do now, please, help him. We'll do whatever we can to help you. If there's anything you can do now, if you could help him understand we're here—"

Winston's cellular gave a muted ring. He snatched it out of his pocket, knowing who it had to be. "What do you have, Janine?"

"Nothing!" Their secretary sounded about as close to tears as he had ever heard her, but of anger more than grief. "The bastard—he says there isn't an antidote, he laughed about it. I had to leave the room; that trap better hold him. I didn't tell him Egon's alive. Can I talk to Egon?"

"He's...busy right now," Winston told her, shooting a look at Egon, who concentrated now on empty space, awaiting any response.

"Is Peter—?"

"The doctors are doing their best. He— They don't know how he's doing. He doesn't look good, but he's hanging on. You know Pete."

"I should be there," Janine said.

"You should," he agreed. "But we can't lose Ulster."

"I know." Over the line, she caught her breath. "He was— He thinks Egon's dead, and he thinks Peter's dying, and he wanted to know—he asked me if Peter was having trouble with the drug, or was it something else, if his injuries were self-inflicted. What did he mean?"

"I don't know," Winston told her. "Egon hasn't said jack. I told you how we found them, that's all we know. Janine, I gotta go."

"Is it Peter? Is he..." Janine swallowed audibly, strengthened her faltering voice. "You watch out for Egon," she ordered, and hung up before he cut the connection.

"It's moving," he had heard Ray whisper, and Egon jerked back, focusing so intently Winston wondered if the physicist were in fact seeing something.

"Where?" Winston muttered, when Egon seemed unable to ask. He had never seen the physicist so off-balance, and that was almost as alarming as Peter's condition. They had all been in trouble before, as bad as this, and Egon rarely lost his head, at least during a crisis. Afterwards all bets were off, but his logic would hold him together through the worst of it, and Peter and Winston and Ray would help him pick up the pieces after. What could have so completely destroyed that sufficiency?

Ray, on the other hand, who sometimes could panic, responded to Egon's state now, and it was he who was calm, the logical, careful one, impatiently wiping his eyes as he read off the meter. "It's going toward...toward Peter—"

Winston considered making a break for Ecto and his pack, but there wasn't time. Ray's head came up, and as one they turned toward Peter, laid out on the bed, one doctor leaning over him with a purposeful frown. The meter beeped once, softly, and in that moment Winston swore he saw something, dim, wispy, an ambiguous white shadow of a girl, hovering over the still form of his friend.

He blinked and there was nothing. Perhaps it had only been the glare of the fluorescent lights off the metal instruments. "I'm barely getting the readings now," Ray reported in a whisper. "They're very faint, and they're..." He hesitated, went on even more quietly, "They're overlapping with Peter's biorhythms."

Which were far too faint as it was. If there was any kind of possession here, Winston knew that they'd never be able to separate Peter from the ghost, not with him so weak already. If it were something else...

Egon took the few remaining steps to Peter's bedside, moving between the doctors without acknowledging either their presence or their protests. He reclaimed Peter's hand, clutching the slack fingers between his as tightly as he had in the warehouse, and his lips moved in voiceless assurances.

One of the monitors squealed alarmingly, and Egon winced as if the noise was a physical blow, his wan face going that much whiter as he dropped his friend's hand. When he staggered back, Winston was by him in an instant, looping an arm around the tall man to keep him upright. Having pocketed the meter, Ray took up position on the physicist's other side, his own complexion bloodless. God damn it, Winston swore, it wasn't supposed to be like this. Hadn't they gone through enough already? _Don't pull this on us, Pete. After everything, don't do this to Egon, don't do this to Ray, and don't you dare do it to yourself... _

It couldn't have possibly been as many years as it felt like before another of the doctors turned away and headed over. From the grim set of his mouth, Winston knew what he was going to say, the apology and then the admittance of failure.

"I'm sorry," the man began, just as expected, but continued in a completely different vein, "we don't have much to tell you, but the worst seems to be over. There was some unusual, possibly dangerous brain activity, but it leveled out, probably just an anomalous spike. He's breathing on his own and his pulse is stable. He's unconscious now, but he responded to physical stimulus, so it doesn't look like a coma."

"Peter—Peter's going to be all right?" It sounded like Ray's calm facade was going.

"It's too soon to say anything," the doctor hastened to qualify. "Until the bloodwork and scans come back, we can't be certain, but his life doesn't seem to be in danger."

"He's alive," Winston said, turned to his two friends and took them by the arms, "Pete's alive!" He shook Egon, not hard, but enough to penetrate the blankness clouding his blue eyes, and then he pushed the blond man toward the bed. The doctors stepped back to allow the three of them to stand side by side, looking down at their friend, lying there still pallid and unmoving.

Ray placed one hand lightly on his arm, above the taped IV line, and murmured, "Peter? We're here..."

His eyelashes, dark against his paper-white skin, didn't flicker, and he didn't speak, but Peter turned his head the slightest degree toward the sound, the touch, and sighed, a soft voiceless exhalation which trailed off into the slow, even breaths of deepest sleep.

At that sign, Ray swallowed, leaning heavily on the low bedguard as he closed his eyes. Egon fumblingly put his hand on his shoulder. "Ray?" And he turned, blindly threw himself into the taller man's uncertain embrace. Or maybe he hugged Egon because it was Egon even more than Ray who needed to be supported, and while Ray's face was wet with tears, Egon's shoulders shook with silent sobs as he leaned on his friend.

The doctors had discretely retreated and, while Peter was still being monitored, Winston went and drew the curtain around the alcove, granting his friends that semblance of privacy. He laid his hand on Peter's shoulder, and maybe it was only his imagination, but he seemed more firm, more present, breathing deeper and the blood flowing warmer under the pallid skin. Then Winston put his arms around his other teammates, and leaned into them, the three of them buttressing one another against whatever might come.

 

* * *

He was deep underwater, so far down where everything was purple and the water pressed down on him like a great stone as he swam up to the surface. He didn't need to breathe, but he wanted the light, the warmth, not this frigid, weighty darkness. Through the rushing current, he heard muffled voices, a fragment of a phrase, "--You have to sleep, m'man. You ate, but you need rest, too—"

There was a response, but most of it was lost to the waves. "Not until he's awake—" and then something about Ulster, a name he knew more as a feeling than an identity, a bitter cold different than the water's chill. He was sinking down again, driven deeper under, but someone was calling him, not by name, but urgent nonetheless.

"Please, please, there's little time."

It occurred to him that he saw utter blackness because his eyes were closed. With effort, he levered up his lids, and was rewarded by a bright, murky blur.

"Peter?"

Too faint; that wasn't the one calling him. So many distracting voices—some almost sounded like the guys, but the loudest was hers. "You must listen, you must tell them!"

She floated before him, clear in the foggy world, as if she were a candle burning through the mist. "There isn't much time," she repeated. "We must find them before they flee."

"Who?" he asked, surprised to find he had a voice at all, through the water.

"It's us," said one of the distant voices. "Me, and Winston, and Egon, of course—"

"The doctors!" she cried, almost singing, or screaming. "The scientists, the three that did this, to you, to me, and I can find them, but only with your help. Say it. You must tell them!"

"Scientists," he mumbled obediently. "She'll help...find 'em..."

"Who, Pete?" That nearly might have been Winston's voice, and the dark blur imposing itself before the woman might almost have been his friend's face.

No, it was all in his head, except for her; she was real, he hadn't imagined her.

"It's the ghost—" and that sounded so much like Ray he could have called out to him. But Ray wasn't here, even if he thought he heard his voice. "It's in the room. It's separated from him—"

"Can you see her, Peter?" Egon's bass. "What is she saying?" Was it Egon or not? Egon had promised not to leave, or was that also just a dream?

"They must follow me," she commanded, and that voice was too sure to be fantasy, the lines of her flowing hair and the anger in her hollow eyes too distinct to be illusion. "Tell them I will find the scientists, if I am able to accompany them. I can follow your friend, and I will guide him. I do this for you, and for myself, but if we do not move quickly, they will be gone. Tell them!"

He repeated this, faltering, her prodding reminders pushing through his flagging strength, barely understanding the words he echoed. When he spoke, they all were silent, she watching him closely, and they listening attentively—or perhaps the delusions could not take so strong a hold on his mind when he was focused elsewhere. It became increasingly harder to keep his eyes open, though he almost thought he made out forms, blue and tan figures, different heights, different voices, all close, all familiar...

When he stopped, he heard a whisper which sounded too convincingly like Ray's, and the words were painfully like him, eager and excited. "It's a fixed repeater, only it managed to change its focus. It was on Peter, but I think it's on you now, Egon."

"And it knows where the other scientists are?" Winston—practical as his teammate ever was, so convincing a dream it nearly fooled him. "It can bring us to them?"

"Apparently." Egon's voice grew louder and a blurred face dipped close to his, blue eyes startling through the purple depths. "Peter, why is she helping us?"

She must have heard the question, and yet she hovered there silently, watching—no, waiting, and not patiently, a stalking cat, a wolf eager to begin the hunt. But there were no clues in her steady stare of why she sought her prey.

"Don't know," he groaned. "Ask her later..."

"Later, then." Egon didn't sound impatient, only quiet, gentle. "You can sleep, Peter, we'll take care of it. We can follow her—"

"It has to be you, Egon," murmured Ray. "She's focused on you now; she can't go anywhere unless you do."

"But Peter—" Was it really Egon? He had rarely heard such weariness in his friend's voice, fatigue or despair weighing heavily on every syllable.

"I'll go with you," Winston decided. "We can call Frump, get some officers to come along and arrest these guys."

"And I'll stay with Peter," Ray said softly. "He's okay, Egon. He's going to be okay."

If only it really were Ray, and any of this were true—but he couldn't trust this, couldn't believe what he might see or hear, and it was dangerous to sleep in this darkness, alone. He tried to push himself up, swim out of the violet depths, but he couldn't move, couldn't keep his eyes on her. She moved away, blending into the blurred world retreating from him. He tried to grab her, ask her where she went, where they all went, but that was more than he could manage.

Someone's arms surrounded him, enfolded him so that he couldn't move, couldn't flail against the exhaustion claiming him, and that should have frightened him, but it didn't. "I've got you, Peter," and he couldn't tell whose voice said it, but it was familiar and comforting and it made him feel safe, in spite of the darkness.

Only an illusion, couldn't believe it, but there was nothing he could believe, and this was preferable to any reality, the warmth here. "This dream's the best," he mumbled, and someone might have chuckled, unless it was a sob, or unless it was his own cry as he plunged once more beneath the surface.

 

* * *

The doctor knew nothing of what had happened the evening before, after he had left the warehouse. He had attempted to contact no one, neither the facility nor his colleagues; there was no need, for wherever he went they would find him, and arrive soon enough with new research, a different study, another proposal. They would be just as quick to clean up after him. Twenty-four hours after he left, he knew his apartment would be empty, all records of his presence erased. Everything he wanted to keep he packed in two suitcases, though the process of deciding what he could afford to abandon took most of the night. No matter; he wouldn't have been able to sleep as it were, not with the terrifying excitement of a move after years of unchanging routine.

Therefore, he was awake half an hour before dawn, when there came a sharp knock at the door. He didn't answer immediately; they would surely assume he was in bed, so early in the morning. They pounded again, rattling the bolt, and then spoke, "Open up, Mr. Anderson, it's the police. We have a warrant—"

Sometime later he learned that when they had come for his colleague, the neurologist had opened the door for them, welcomed them inside and said not a word when they snapped on the handcuffs. She faced them with the same equanimity that she met everything in life, knowing that there was little she could do then, and that in the end there was even less that they could do to her.

The doctor, however, had his already upside-down world knocked out of orbit by this new, unexpected threat. They would have come eventually, but so soon, when none of the guards knew so much as his assumed name? How had they found him? But he didn't think that through, not immediately. If he had, he might not have acted so rashly. Unlike his colleague, he panicked at the third sharp rap and the accompanying summons. Grabbing one of his suitcases, he crept silently across the apartment to the window, with care raised it to crawl out onto the fire escape. Glancing up and down the alley to ascertain no one was watching, he began climbing down the iron-wrought stairs.

On the second landing from the ground, he felt a chill steal through him, not a cool morning breeze, but a stranger, colder sensation. Tightening his grip on his suitcase, he clambered down the rest of the way, dropped to the pavement and straightened.

And she was in front of him, faint and translucent, the pre-dawn glow streaming through her misty skin. Behind the faded golden veil of her hair, her eyes fixed on him, incandescent scarlet, enraged, accusing. Her hands were outstretched toward him, delicate cobweb fingers hooked into claws, groping for his throat.

Had he been able, he would have screamed. Instead he ran, but only a few steps before he crashed into someone, not the ghost, but a living, solid human being. Gasping, he stared up into a dark face, seeing an anger almost to match hers in the brown eyes.

"Where're you goin', pinhead?" growled the man, and a strong grip closed uncomfortably around his forearms.

Dropping his suitcase, the doctor stared at this new threat. Not a cop—he took in the man's uniform, the light jumpsuit and the red and white patch on his sleeve, and didn't try to struggle. Hearing footsteps, he turned his head, and gaped at the tall figure approaching them, similarly attired, adjusting round-framed glasses as he examined a complex electronic device.

So he had survived—but the doctor didn't get a chance to remark upon this, or ask about the fate of their other subject, for two police officers came behind the man, waving the warrant in his face, growling his rights as they locked restraints around his wrists. He went quietly to the cruiser parked before his building, looking back only once into the alley. He saw no sign of the woman, but they were standing there, the blond man bent over his device and his coworker at his side, resting a hand on his shoulder.

The black man looked up and returned the regard, and though the doctor had never seen him before, except on the occasional new reports, he recognized his expression, knew that this man was aware of what he had done, what they all had done to his friends.

He knew he deserved the anger, did not begrudge the man his feelings. But the doctor couldn't help but be relieved when the cruiser pulled into the street and headed for the station, putting more distance between him and them, these men he had hurt, and the woman he had killed. And though he had tried to escape, a part of him couldn't help but feel that this all might be for the best.

 

* * *

It was over. Ray whispered it to himself, as if saying it aloud had the power of making it real in his mind, in his heart. Winston had called to report their success; he and Egon were at the police station now, dealing with the two they had captured, with the ghost's assistance and without trouble.

That was important, and it was good that they had found the scientists, but Ray wished Winston and Egon were with him. They had been apart for too long—but they had had to move quickly, as the ghost had insisted, and someone needed to stay with Peter. He hadn't wanted to go, anyway. He wanted to be by Peter, and he didn't want to see the people who had assisted Ulster. He didn't want to see Ulster again, though when there was a trial he would have to. But Peter would be awake by then, well by then, and Egon would be there, and he knew he would be able to handle it. With them. Not now, though, not so soon after...

But it was over. Ray looked down at his friend. Peter's breathing was deep and even, and while he didn't move, his face had lost that livid, lifeless pallor. He looked sick, and weak, head tilted limply against the pillow and shadowed eyes closed. But alive.

Head bowed with the weight of his relief, Ray scrubbed his face with his palms, and when he lifted it, his friend's eyes were open, not dark and clouded, but clear emerald, focused on him. Peter's lips moved.

"Ray?"

He was awake, and watching him, knowing him. Ray could have cried, or burst out laughing. "Yes?" Putting his hand over Peter's, he felt his friend's fingers shift, clasping his slightly.

"It was real," Peter murmured. "You found us." Suddenly, he twisted his head up to peer around, eyes widening. "Egon—"

"He's okay," Ray told him. "He's with Winston. He'll be coming back soon. He had to go. He didn't want to, but we had to get them, the people who did this to you—"

"Easy. Easy, Tex." Peter carefully tried to extricate his fingers from Ray's tightening grip.

Ray noticed that they were injured, the knuckles scraped raw and pink. Shamefaced, he released his hold, dropping his head again. "Gosh, I'm sorry, Peter."

"S'okay. Don't think you broke 'em. Ray?" A hand fell heavily on Stantz' shoulder. He looked up into bright eyes intent upon him. Having got his attention, Peter let his arm flop back down on the bed. That move, reaching out, seemed to have taken everything out of him and then some. But he didn't close his eyes or allow Ray to turn away, and his sharp query held none of the fatigue in his face. "What's the matter?"

"We— I should've found you sooner!" he blurted out. "You shouldn't be in here. If we had gotten to you and Egon sooner, if we had caught Ulster before—"

"Ray." Quiet as that word was, it cut through all his insistence. Closing his mouth with a snap, he listened as Peter said, "You found us. We're okay. I've felt a helluva lot better, but I'm okay, and so's Egon. Don't take a guilt trip now, I'm too wiped...to go after you." He paused a long moment, rocking his head back against the pillow and blinking as if trying to keep his eyes open, before he hesitantly asked, "You said...you caught Ulster?"

Ray nodded, not entirely trusting his voice. "We— The police have him in custody now. And then the ghost—do you remember the ghost?"

"I...think so."

"It wanted to help us." With that green gaze on him, it was impossible to prevent a little excitement from creeping into his voice. "It's only a fixed repeater, but somehow it fixed on you, and it might have done something, to help you, we don't know. Egon asked it to. Then, later, it sort of spoke through you. It needed our help to find the scientists. It had managed to transfer its focus onto Egon—because he was willing, I think; he opened himself to it. Anyway, it couldn't go anywhere on its own, without him, and that's why he had to go. It helped us find the other two doctors."

"You don't say." Peter's brow wrinkled with the effort to recall any of this. Something must have clicked, because suddenly his eyes snapped wide and he struggled to sit up, clutching at Ray's arm, the faint color leaching from his cheeks to leave his eyes all the brighter in contrast. Panting with the exertion, he gasped, "Oh, God, Ray, you didn't get all of it. She doesn't want to help us, she wants to help herself. She wants revenge. You gotta warn them, Egon and Winston gotta be careful. She doesn't like us, she just hates them!"

Ray wasn't sure if he should be happy Peter remembered, or worried about the strain it put on him, the overwhelming urgency sapping his already too-depleted reserves. "It's all right, Peter, they've already caught the doctors. The ghost led Egon and Winston right to them, and with Egon's testimony, the police could at least arrest them." He gently pushed his friend down against the mattress.

Falling back, Peter turned his head against the pillow in a definite negative. "No, no—that's not enough. It won't be. You didn't see her eyes, Tex. She hates them. That's why she held on. Stayed a ghost. They killed her, and she wants revenge. You know how bad that can be."

Ray did. A ghost who existed for the sake of vengeance was dangerous, a threat to anyone who might come between it and its retribution. You couldn't bargain with such a spirit, or try to talk it out of its purpose. At best, you could capture it, and keep it from extracting its goal. It might give up, eventually, depending on the nature of its anger. The ghosts of murder victims, though, ghosts trying to get their killers—their causes were halfway just, and rarely abandoned for any reason.

And in this spirit's case... Ray understood her, and her hatred, all too well. He had to forcibly quash the small, insistent, entirely abnormal voice inside him saying that this once it would be better to let the ghost do what she wanted. "I'll warn them," he assured Peter. "I'll call them right now."

"Thanks." The corners of Peter's mouth turned up, even as his eyes closed, and he relaxed back into the bed. Watching him, Ray couldn't help but be reminded how he had crumpled on the video—difficult to equate that black and white image in memory with the  
living man before him. Yet at the same time, all too easy; the exhaustion consuming both was too different from Peter, the true Peter, even if his friend's gaze was as dynamic as always.

Ray hadn't made a sound, not so much as a sigh as he took out his cellular, but Peter's eyes rolled open again to lock onto his. "Forgot to say...thanks for coming. Knew you would. Knew you wouldn't let us down." They slid shut again, before Ray could speak, and he ordered in a fading mumble, "Call 'em now..."

"Peter?" When he didn't do anything except breathe deeply, Ray took his hand again, squeezing it carefully around the barked knuckles. "You're welcome, Peter," he whispered, then, "Thank you..." Then he opened the phone and dialed, never taking his eyes off his friend. It wasn't that he was afraid Peter would disappear if he blinked. But the sight of him lying there, pale and drained, but breathing, and his eyelids shifting slightly with the restlessness of dreams—it was one of the most reassuring things Ray had seen in a while, and if he looked long enough, he knew he would be able to believe this was over.

 

* * *

Egon disconnected his cellular. "That was Ray," he announced unnecessarily. "Peter was awake and cognizant. The doctors are expecting him to make a full recovery."

Winston's face shone with the intensity of his grin. "Thank God!" Then he grabbed Egon's arm when the taller man staggered. "Okay, m'man, think it's about time we get you back to the hospital. You've been on your feet for what, twenty-four hours? And you can see Peter—"

"Peter's asleep," Egon replied. "I need to see Ulster now." He hesitated, examining the PKE meter. The class three readings still blinked steadily, within a few feet of them. "Peter made Ray call," he said finally. "He wanted to warn about the ghost."

"The ghost?" Winston looked around, seeking their invisible ally. "What about her? She's been a big help. Don't we want her to peacefully disperse?"

"'Peacefully' may be the key word," said Egon. "From what Peter said, she's out for revenge."

The darkness that flashed across Winston's face owed nothing to the color of his skin. "I know where she's coming from. So what is she gonna try?"

Egon shook his head. "Peter doesn't know. He warned us to be careful. If she hurts someone..."

"Depends on who," Winston muttered under his breath.

It wasn't low enough that Egon didn't hear, however, and he unconsciously tilted his head in silent agreement. Their ordeal might be over, but it would be a long time before Peter was fully recovered, and Egon knew that he himself would never forget the sound of his friend's screams. He wanted to avoid sleep, because he knew they'd fill his dreams. But he shoved all that aside for now, to better concentrate on what he had to do. This might stave off the worst of the nightmares.

They proceeded to the basement of the station, where the desk sergeant blinked at their request. "You can't just drop into the holding cells," she protested. "You already identified Ulster. You can't—"

"What's this?"

Egon turned at the growl from the door, and saw Inspector Frump's massive form blocking the light from the stairs. "Didn't know he got up so early," Winston muttered, then said louder, "Good morning, Inspector."

Frump narrowed his eyes down at all of them. "The hell it is. I was in this damn building all night and it looks like I'll be here all day, too. Never thought I'd say it, but I wish you clowns would stick to busting ghosts. You get in less trouble, and the paperwork's easier when we can write stuff off as 'acts of God.'" He angled his head toward Egon. "So you're back, Spengler. Where's Venkman?"

"The hospital," Winston answered for his teammate.

"Too bad. At least you and Stantz found 'em in time, though." The inspector sounded halfway sincere, a startling phenomenon. "Why are you hanging around here?"

"We have to see Ulster," Egon insisted. "I know it's irregular, but it's necessary. He may be in danger, from a ghost. It's here now." And with the PKE meter, he gestured to the corner, where the spirit hovered, invisible but watching.

The desk sergeant started, peering anxiously in the same direction. Frump growled something dire under his breath, then turned to the other officer and snapped, "Bring 'em to Ulster."

"But, Inspector—"

The detective ignored her. "We're not going to be able to hold him. Even with your testimony, Spengler. We've been talking to the doctor you brought in. He's willing to spill, he wants to, and he's says we don't have a chance of keeping either of the other two, his colleagues. They've got friends in high places. We'll tie them up as long as possible, but soon as Ulster gets a lawyer, he'll be out. Can't hurt to give you a couple minutes before that happens. Make it snappy."

Egon wasn't planning on taking any longer than necessary. He set off down the hall, the sergeant at his heels. Behind him, he heard Winston thanking the inspector before hurrying after them. He had no intention of letting Egon face the other scientist alone, which was just as well, because Egon wasn't entirely sure he was up to it yet. But this might be the only opportunity.

As the sergeant unlocked the door to the holding cells, Egon handed Winston the meter. The ghost was at his side; he could feel her presence. That supernatural coolness buffered him, as did Winston's steady, unshakable pace behind him, as did the knowledge that Peter was with Ray, safe in a hospital miles from here, and recovering. With all that at his back, he drew a deep breath, and entered.

 

* * *

Kenneth Ulster had been expecting to see someone shortly. After being placed alone in this holding cell, he had seemingly been ignored, but when the police had hustled him away from the firehall he had overheard that his colleagues were arrested, and he knew how that would end. The neuropsychologist could be trusted to give not an inch, waiting for salvation with her usual stoic reticence. But his other colleague—he would break the moment they flashed a bright light in his eyes. Ulster had never cared for the physician. He put up with him because it was difficult to find one of the medical profession willing to take part in their work, but the man was an irritation, always questioning the necessity of what they did, forever harping about conditions and restrictions and rules, as if any guidelines applied to science beyond the unbreakable truths of natural law. That lack of a stomach which the doctor had excused as ethics would surely lead him to confession now. It would only be a matter of time before they silenced him, and the physician was aware of that, but probably would decide that valor was greater than discretion and babble out whatever he knew, which was a fair amount. Hopefully, he would be interrupted before he gave away too much.

It didn't matter, really. Ulster knew he himself would be leaving soon. They valued his expertise, and would soon remove him from here to place him on another project. Preferably one with a more competent, less queasy physician. His escape might be a complex act, faking papers or misdirecting a prison transfer, or it might be as simple as the negotiations of a sharp-witted lawyer. How many witnesses were there, after all, with his subjects already taken care of? So when the door at the end of the hall opened, he halfway expected a lawyer, and barring that, more detectives, with questions they had no hope of getting answered.

Ulster was therefore entirely unprepared when Egon Spengler entered, strode purposefully to the holding cell door and folded his arms, looking down at him through his round glasses. Peripherally, the biochemist noted the black Ghostbuster, Zeddemore, positioning himself a few feet behind his coworker, wielding an instrument like that he had taken from Spengler, several days back. He hadn't had a chance to properly examine it—

Tearing his thoughts forcibly from that distracting speculation, the biochemist closed his mouth and stared unflinching at the apparition before him, halfway tempted to begin believing in ghosts. Spengler should be dead. He and Venkman should both be dead, from the drug or gunshot wounds. Venkman had been brought to the very edge; how could he possibly have stepped back from it?

He refused to allow any of his disbelief show, however. Couldn't reveal to this one-time scientist how majorly he had miscalculated. "Ironic how fortune turns, isn't it, Spengler? It seems as if I'm destined to always see you through bars."

His former subject's cold blue eyes didn't break from his long enough to glance at the indicated holding cell. He said nothing, so Ulster continued, "I see you're doing well. Better than might be expected, given the circumstances under which I last observed you." Spengler's stony expression twisted, only briefly, but he pressed his advantage. "Tell me, how is Venkman doing? I heard from your secretary that he wasn't taking well to our experiment's ending. Surprising, that, considering how excellent his initial reactions were. How sensitive did he prove to the drug's aftereffects? We hadn't really refined that aspect yet, but ideally he would fall into a permanent vegetative state. Preferable to simple death, less to be held accountable for—"

"Pete's getting better," snarled Zeddemore, not approaching, but looking straight at Ulster for as long as he could maintain the glare. "He's gonna be all right."

"It didn't work," Spengler added, in a hoarse voice hardly louder than a whisper. He went on, "None of it worked. It was a failure, your whole experiment. I'm here, uninjured, and Peter is recovering. How much did you observe, when we were in the warehouse? He didn't do it. I didn't need to stop him. He stopped himself. Everything you gave him, your best, I imagine, your most advanced and refined chemical, and it didn't work."

"A shame," Ulster spat. "I expected—"

"You expected that because Peter is not your ideal scientist, cold and logical and soulless, he would not be as able to handle it with the same resilience that you think I or you yourself would. You expected that because we fight demons and specters, the demons and specters which came from his mind would be all that more terrifying, and that he would fall quicker beneath them." Spengler's tone never rose above that quiet, cracking growl, but there was an intensity in his eyes far louder than his words, the same uninterpretable energy that had driven Stantz. Ulster recognized it, still without identifying it.

Backed by that strength, Spengler went on, "And you expected that your science would prove stronger than whatever I have chosen to devote myself to. In the end, that was your true purpose, wasn't it, Kenneth? To show me my mistake, to prove that what I did with you was greater than anything I have with Peter, and Ray, and my other friends." And for the first time, his gaze slipped, darting back for assurance of his coworker's solid stance behind him.

It returned to Ulster when the biochemist spoke, deliberately allowing his contempt to deepen his voice. "You know nothing can be conclusively proved in science, Spengler. Theories can only be disproved. This experiment accomplished nothing, I admit, except to show us what needs to be perfected with this drug."

He waited. Spengler sighed, nearly imperceptibly. "And you'll make these perfections for your clients, whoever they are. There won't be a point in testifying against you, will there? Nothing I can say will assure that you're given justice."

"Justice is hardly a scientific process, despite what our legal system would have you believe," Ulster remarked. "I would immensely dislike being subjected to such emotional, illogical proceedings."

Something strange and bright flashed through Spengler's eyes, unnervingly quick in its passing. "I came to warn—" he began, then interrupted himself with a slight shake of the head. "No matter. There's a ghost who may try to take vengeance on you, but I wouldn't want to subject you to such emotional, illogical threats."

"Especially not ones I couldn't possibly believe on a scientific basis," Ulster retorted, curling his lip. Reprehensible, Spengler resorting to such chicanery—the man degraded himself with every word he spoke. To see such genius so squandered repulsed him; he almost regretted ever approaching them. Far easier to ignore his former associate's ruination when it was only distant memory. Venkman deserved worse than he had been able to give him, for that vandalism.

But he couldn't let his frustration destroy his own self. Deliberately, he spoke without anger. "Your warning doesn't concern me, but thank you for the consideration. I hope this is a sign that, acting as rational men, we can disregard the events of the recent days. I likely won't encounter you again; there's no reason for us to maintain animosity."

"Put it all behind us?" Spengler sounded as cool as he, though behind him his teammate's eyes widened and his mouth opened. Without even seeing, Spengler raised one hand to still the protest before Zeddemore made it. He then considered his lifted hand, staring down at the palm, the long fingers trembling slightly, with fatigue, Ulster imagined.

Then he extended it toward the other scientist, fingers loose and wrist stiff, his face a mask. Ulster, nodding with a small smile, reached through the holding cell bars and grasped the offered hand, shook once.

As they contacted, he felt a chill wafting over his skin, the draft an aberration in the warm room. Spengler might have felt it, too, for he shivered once as he withdrew, took a step back as if to regain his balance. Behind the red-rimmed glasses, the shadows below his eyes were all the more pronounced, but his expression was blank.

Ulster's smile broadened a little, and then he heard a soft squeal. Zeddemore, focusing on the noisy device in his hands, cried aloud, "Egon, better look at this! It's—"

Something dark and enormous passed over his vision, a cloud thicker and blacker than any hurricane. He blinked at the unpredictable phenomenon, and then he heard the roar of the wind in his ears, drowning out Spengler's command, "Get a trap! We need—"

Even as he said it, the words became an unintelligible growl, and as Ulster peered disbelievingly through the descending tempest, the other scientist's lean form twisted and swelled, expanding upward to loom over him. His blue eyes, now round and inhuman orbs sprouting from a misshapen skull, stared down at him with implacable incomprehension, and though Ulster tried to call out, the words froze in his throat.

Distant and very high above him, he heard a giddy peal of laughter, a girl shouting, "You see, you will see it now, you will know it now! This is what it was for us, only for you it goes on and on and on—" but her voice was fading even as she shrieked, and then it was gone. The clouds closed in around him, smothering him, and he flailed wildly against them, trying to push back the formless heaviness pressing him down. Within the mist, he felt cold hands groping, clawing for him; he couldn't see them to fight them off, and there were too many, regardless. But he knew them, knew them all, though he couldn't see any. All he had ever hurt, every subject he had ever used, hissing his name in a vindicated, exhilarated chorus as they reached for him through the blackness.

He might have screamed, but he couldn't hear it, and he might have wondered where they had all emerged from, but he had no chance to reason out such questions, logic abandoned as he fell into their seething mass.

 

* * *

Egon snatched the meter from Winston's offering hands, twisted the knob and studied it intently. "There's no point," he told his teammate, at the door and ready to run for the trap as he had been instructed. "There's no sign of the ghost."

Ulster screamed, a blood-curdling, animalistic wail, his eyes so wide they bulged from their sockets, no longer ice gray, but glittering feverishly as they focused on empty air. The door flew open and two police officers, the desk sergeant and another, dashed into the corridor. The man went for the occupied cell; the sergeant confronted them.

"All right, what the hell did you do? We were watching—" She grabbed Egon's right wrist, twisted up his hand and inspected his palm closely, finding nothing.

"It's the ghost," Winston told her, "or it was."

"It's gone," Egon confirmed. "His biorhythms," gesturing with the meter in his free hand toward the man pressed into the far corner of his cell, "are untouched by spectral activity. They are slightly altered, but still entirely human; he's not possessed." He lowered his hands as the sergeant released him. "It acted more quickly than I would have expected. I believe it has dispersed. If not entirely peacefully."

Moaning, Ulster hunched in on himself, no sign of calm or logic in his contorted features. Egon caught a glimpse of the sergeant's jaw dropping, and then, quite suddenly, everything faded, sounds blurring around him. Vaguely, he was aware of someone's arm coming around him, holding him up as his knees buckled, and the PKE meter taken before it slipped from his fingers. The voice in his ear was Winston's; he couldn't quite make out the words, but his tone sounded reproachful. Something about exhaustion and pushing too hard, though he wasn't sure whom he was addressing.

They walked a little ways, a door closing over Ulster's cries, and he was pushed into a chair. Winston ordered him to drop his head between his knees. As it was a reasonable request, he obeyed, and then he clearly heard a familiar voice, "Oh, Egon!"

Janine hurtled into him, wrapping her arms around his neck tightly enough that he could hardly breathe. She was going on about Ulster and protective custody and why hadn't they come for her as soon as they had arrived at the station or sooner, talking so rapidly only the flow of ideas came across, no individual words. He heard Winston trying to formulate a sensible excuse, but having none himself, he put his arms around her and squeezed the breath out of her as well, quieting the torrent for the moment at least. Glad to have someone to hold onto.

She was the one who finally pushed away, keeping one small hand on his arm as she sharply lectured the officers buzzing around them, with Winston adding his own points to the debate. It went over his head, mostly, but he answered the few questions directly poised to him, and their argument must have been convincing, because they were striding outside, Janine on one side and Winston on his other. He was bundled between them into Ecto's front seat, Janine pressed against his side and Winston driving again. He had been driving a good deal of late, Egon recalled. He should have volunteered to take the wheel, but the motion of the car made him dizzy, and it wasn't that long a trip. He barely blinked and they were at the hospital in Brighton. Janine hauled him out of the vehicle and Winston guided them through the halls to the correct room.

Ray looked over as they entered, and his face broke into a smile so wide it pained him, tear glittering in the corners of his eyes. When he saw Egon leaning on Janine, he jumped up, grin fading as he took his friend by the arm. "What's wrong? Did anything—"

"He's okay," Winston supplied. "I think everything's catching up to him now, that's all."

"He dozed off on the ride," Janine added. "I don't think he's really gonna wake up until he gets a full night's sleep. Or day's, whatever."

Egon wondered if they remembered he was right there, after all; they were talking right over him. It occurred to him to call them on this, but before he could organize words around that thought, he heard Ray saying, "Peter's asleep, too—"

Only to be interrupted by a quiet correction behind him, "I was. Up now...hey, Spengs."

That voice, soft but so clear, broke through the haze around him. He forged past his friends to the bedside. Peter's eyes were open, meeting his directly, no trace of the lost confusion of the drug in that dancing emerald.

He nearly couldn't believe it. This dream's the best, he entirely agreed with Peter there. After so long, that this would be real, that it would have ended, and they were safe now, and here, with Ray and Winston and Janine...

The realization crashed into him with the force of a tornado and Egon might have fallen again, except Peter somehow lunged forward to catch him, yanking him onto the bed and into his arms, half-cradling him as Egon had done for him in the warehouse. Dropping his head onto his friend's shoulder, Egon held him close, and felt Peter respond as he had been unable to those long hours before, patting him lightly on the back. He murmured something unintelligible, but Egon recognized the tone, that same comfort he had tried to give, and he could have laughed at the reversal. Someone's hand fell on his back and he knew without looking that Ray was there.

Peter shifted in a half-hearted attempt to free himself. When Egon pulled away, he sagged against the pillow, offered a wry grin at the physicist's concerned look. "Still a little washed out. Figure 'bout ninety years napping will fix it." He glanced past Egon. "Hey, Zed."

Winston was beside Ray, gripping Peter's shoulder and resting his other hand on Egon's. "Hey, yourself. Damn, it's good to have you guys back!"

"And in one piece," Janine seconded, sidling up to Egon and peering down the bed at the psychologist. "You're all right, Peter?"

"Will be," he assured her. "Nice to know you care, Janine."

"You do sign my paychecks, Dr. V.," she reminded him pertly. "Once in a while, anyway." Looking sharply between him and Egon, "What happened to you? What did Ulster do?"

Egon was grateful he was still seated on the bed, and more grateful that Peter was beside him; he needed that proof of their survival. Peter was tense, but still, tightening his jaw. His eyes sought out Egon's and questions passed between them. How much did their friends know of the experiment? Any, all, none of it? Seeing that mix of worry and query in that green gaze, he knew that Peter himself didn't know all of it, most likely couldn't remember much of their experience. It would be up to Egon to explain. He would have to eventually; they deserved to know, and Peter would demand it. But he was too fatigued to hear it now, and Egon too exhausted to tell it.

Ray, who had been watching them all silently, suddenly interrupted. "That's over, though." His eyes held that same curiosity and concern, but he said, "You can tell us later. What's happened with Ulster now? You called on the way, but I didn't get it..."

Ray couldn't have known that was just as hard a question to answer. Winston hesitated with Egon, giving Peter time to scrutinize their expressions and inquire, "The ghost?"

Egon nodded, but he couldn't explain it, not when he wasn't yet positive what had occurred. And not to Peter, so soon after he had awoken from those same nightmares.

He said nothing, did nothing, but Winston leaned over to say, "Guys, this can wait. Pete, you can't keep your eyes open. Think it's time to get started on those ninety years."

"And the doctors told you to get rest before you even left," Ray reminded Egon earnestly.

At that, Peter squinted up at Egon, the critical, assessing gaze that could see through him at the best of times. And he was in no condition to hide anything now. "You look like crap, Egon," Peter said. "Get to bed." He glanced over the others as sharply, remarked, "You all look like I feel. We'll sleep if you will, 'kay?"

While he agreed on principle, having noticed the shadows under Ray's eyes and Winston's swallowed yawns, Egon couldn't keep his side of the bargain. Ray and Janine, one clutching each of his arms, guided him onto the room's other bed, and he was asleep before he was fully horizontal, long before any of the others drifted off. But the only reason he gave into it was because they all were there, and safe, and he knew that Ulster was unable to harm any of them again.

 

* * *

Awaking to the sleeping mugs of his four friends was the best thing Winston had experienced in days, even if his neck suffered permanent damage from spending the night in a chair leaning against the wall. He could have cheerfully stayed in place for a week, but that wasn't an option. Somebody had to figure out what had happened to Ulster, and Winston sure as hell wasn't going to make Egon do it. After everyone but Peter had roused, Janine stayed with Egon, while Winston and Ray headed back to the city, picked up equipment at the firehall and went to the police station.

They returned several hours later. Ray quietly planted himself in the chair by Peter's bed. He had a book with him, but was just as content to watch his friend sleep. Which gave Winston the chance to pull Egon aside and report what they had found. Janine left to seek a real meal, so they were alone in the hall as Winston explained what little Ray had discovered. The ghost was indeed gone, not at the station or overlaid with Ulster's biorhythms, though Ray had detected minor peculiarities in those rhythms and had suggested taking PET and CAT scans of his brain.

The police had accepted the advice eagerly, planning to bring him to a hospital tomorrow. They were as spooked as Winston was. He didn't scare easily, certainly not after all the years he had spent in this career; but there was something terrifying in Ulster's gaze now. The freezing gray had been bad, but the absolute, insane horror that reflected in his eyes now was impossible to look at without feeling a twinge of the same madness. He had stopped screaming, but his gasps and babbles weren't much more informative, disjointed ravings about darkness and devils.

They had gone up against some terrible specters and demons before, but a ghost that could do that to a man's mind... Winston said as much to Egon, who returned the comment not aloud but with a sharp look, his hands momentarily closing into fists tight enough to whiten his knuckles. Then he exhaled and relaxed, "It isn't likely it will happen again."

"No, Ray didn't think so," Winston replied, pretending to have missed the reaction. "He thinks the ghost might have altered the guy's brain as it dispersed, messed with his neurons. But that was probably why it dispersed—fixing that took all its energy."

He hesitated, unsure if he should mention what more had been theorized, finally went ahead. "Ray said that the other reason we shouldn't worry was because most ghosts wouldn't know how to do it. This one knew just what to change, how to change it, to make him...lose it like that. And unless she was a brain surgeon when she was alive, the only way she'd know how was if she had seen it before. If she had an example."

Ray hadn't had to say anything more. Winston remembered as well as he did, Egon's plea in the ICU, and the ghost melding with Peter. And they remembered, too, the video, their friend whispering about the demons, put there by Ulster, only not there at all. It hadn't been a sedative which had laid him low, or a poison. From what Ulster had said, before the ghost had struck, to them and to Ray and to Egon—it had been deliberate. Some kind of experiment.

Neither Peter nor Egon had spoken of it yet; they would when they were ready. For now, Winston didn't press. But if the ghost had used Peter's drugged mind as a model for twisting Ulster's...

"Did you know?" he finally asked. "Did you know what she wanted?"

Egon regarded him for a long moment. "How could I have?"

It was reasonable. There wasn't any way for Egon to have known what the ghost's intentions were. And he couldn't have been sure that physical contact would allow her to transfer her focus, even if she had seemed to move that way from Peter to him.

Except Winston had been there to see what had flashed through his eyes, before he extended his hand. Someone who didn't know Egon as well would have missed it—Ulster had, certainly. But Winston had glimpsed that anger in his teammate before. Very rarely, and almost never acted upon. Had Egon not been pushed so far already, he never would have given into it. Whatever Ulster had done had crossed that line. Even if Winston wasn't clear on the details, he knew his friends well enough that he could only condone Egon's choice.

Janine returned, bearing two brown bags with a delicious Oriental odor, almost overpowering the medicinal smell of the hospital. Egon opened the door for her, and they all proceeded inside to divide the take-out Chinese.

Peter slept through it, their first meal back together; he was still on an IV drip. But he awoke at their laughter over the fortune cookies, and kicked up such a fuss that even Ray, contrite though he was that Peter had to miss out, couldn't help but grin at the familiar whining. Which of course was Pete's aim, though how the psychologist could have known that reassurance was needed, when he had been out like light most of the day, was more than Winston could guess.

The nurse who came to investigate the disturbance frowned at the empty cartons, but said nothing. She offered Peter a pill to help him sleep. He denied it, as was his habit, but with a flat vehemence that bordered on rude, which wasn't Pete's style. And Egon, who usually urged them all to listen to medical recommendations, dismissed the nurse with a curtness just as out of character. At least it would have been, had Winston not seen the blind panic rip across both his friends' expressions.

Peter didn't need the sedative, anyway; he was gone within the hour. That ninety years bit hadn't quite been a joke. They quieted in deference to his rest, but didn't leave. The staff was learning fast and didn't try to chase them out.

Just as well, because Winston didn't really want to spend the night sneaking around the hospital with Ray and Janine. But they weren't about to go back to the city, not without Egon and Peter. As far as they all were concerned, home was this room. The firehall was just a place, a place with comfortable beds and a stocked refrigerator, to be sure, but everything that really mattered was right here.

 

* * *

"Can we go home now?" Though it was far from the first time Peter had made that plea, rarely did he say it with such heartfelt sincerity. And after two days of the Ghostbusters underfoot, Winston imagined the doctors were just as thrilled to grant the request.

They had kept him there for forty-eight hours' surveillance, to ascertain that everything Ulster had given him was entirely cleared from his system. Peter probably would have complained more about the wait and the tests, but he spent most of his stay asleep, recuperating. Now he still was abnormally pale, a bit shaky on his feet, and his lean frame needed to regain a few pounds, but he looked a damn sight better than he had a couple days before. Better still, he was sounding mostly like his old self when he was awake, making snide comments and green eyes snapping with even more unsaid, flirting outrageously with the younger female nurses. Egon, who often might have restrained him, was more inclined now to observe his antics with an intensity Winston didn't question. It was the same force which kept Janine practically a permanent fixture at Egon's side; it was the reason he and Ray had spent the past nights on the lumpy waiting room couches, only yards from their friends' room.

Small wonder that the hospital wasted no time giving Peter a clean bill of health and sending them all packing. Dr. Venkman could snooze just as well in his own bed, was the consensus, and probably should for another day at least, but otherwise he was recovered. Physically, at least, and mentally, he sounded as sharp-witted and -tongued as ever, bantering with them all on the ride back.

But that didn't mean the previous days hadn't happened. It didn't negate the shadows behind Peter's green gaze, or the tension brooding in Egon's that he tried so hard to hide whenever Peter was awake. It didn't explain the gun, still in Ecto's glove compartment.

After dropping Janine off at her apartment, they reached the firehall—empty; Slimer hadn't returned from his search. Neither Peter nor Egon were especially distraught about postponing their welcome-home sliming, both smiling like it was their birthday as they gazed around their unchanged headquarters. The oil-stained garage floor and Janine's desk, stacked high with bills and files, might have been surprise presents wrapped in gold, to tell from their faces. Ray looked like he'd been given something special himself, beaming at his friends finally back where they belonged.

But Peter's expression had a touch of mistrust, as if he couldn't quite accept he really was here. And there was a false edge to Egon's smile, his happiness brittle for all his real relief. Even Ray, the fastest to bounce back from anything, twitched as they climbed the stairs to the study. The tape, Winston recalled. The damn tape was still in the VCR.

And Peter couldn't have known about that, but he noticed Ray's response, even as he grinned at the comfort of being home. Once they settled on the two couches, Dr. Venkman went into action. "Okay, we're all back, we're all okay, but I'm still an invalid until at least tomorrow. So—"

"We know the drill." Ray mustered a grin for the occasion. "We wait on you hand and foot—"

"Until we get tired of it, and smother you with a nicely plumped pillow," Winston concluded.

Egon acquiesced, "Until then, what do you want?"

Which was the opening Peter was waiting for. "Storytime," he said, still smirking, but his voice was serious. "There's no nosy nurses around, to eavesdrop or turn out the lights. Two days in the hospital, and I still don't know how I got there. I was a little out of it when you brought me in. Of course I'd figure it out eventually, but I'm not a mind reader, and I want to hear it. C'mon, guys, you can't deny a sick man a good yarn." He was watching Ray closely as he made his plea.

Before Ray could either give in or shy out of it, Winston said, "Okay. We'll tell you. On one condition—afterwards, it's your turn. You explain what happened to you."

Peter shot Egon a glance. "What d'you say, Spengs?" Smoothly, but his shoulders tensed and didn't relax until Egon nodded fractionally. At that agreement, he grinned again. "It's a deal, Zed," and shook with Winston to seal it, before stretching out on the couch, putting his hands behind his head as he made himself comfortable for the recounting.

Two hours later, Ray finished fulfilling their side of the bargain. Winston had begun, but Ray had sprung in by the time he got to the difficulties at the award ceremony, and had carried most of the telling with a sorely missed vibrancy in his words and expression. He faltered a few times and Winston had picked it up, glossing over nothing. He didn't mention that the video was still in the machine, but he did detail the precise and satisfying bang Ulster's head made against Ecto, even if Ray would have rather let that one be. Peter grinned openly at it, interrupting to claim a high-five from his reticent friend.

"Know just how it felt, Tex—and wasn't it _great?_"

Ray mumbled agreement, cheeks pink and ears even redder, but he slapped his friend's palm obligingly and picked up the story. The humor in Peter's face faded as Ray quietly described tracking them through Brighton's warehouse district, how they had finally detected only Egon's signal, and he didn't have to say what they had feared upon finding that. Winston, automatically reaching for Ray's shoulder, bumped into Peter shifting forward for the same purpose; they exchanged small smiles, acknowledging their mutual intent. Ray's eyes were suspiciously bright, but his mouth curved up.

Egon must have noticed, but his expression didn't alter, as it hadn't for most of the telling. His face remained attentive and serious, not quite masking the grimness in his eyes. When Ray ended the account, he pushed his glasses up his nose; for Egon, that involuntary action was as telling as a shout. He was uneasy. Even more, he was afraid, and Winston could only guess at the reason for his apprehension.

Peter leaned forward, his half-lidded eyes opening fully in proof that he had been nowhere near dozing off. "Guess it's our turn," he said quietly, then turned toward Egon on the adjacent couch. "You know you're gonna have to handle this one."

Egon's head inclined marginally. "Yes." His bass sounded slightly hoarse, as if he had been the one talking these past hours. Hearing it, he cleared his throat, again adjusted his glasses to scrutinize Peter and inquire, "How much do you remember?"

"How much do I remember? How much do I know really happened?" Peter met his gaze steadily. "Waking up in that cage, and taking the pills 'cause Ulster told me to. There's more, bits and pieces—but I can't be sure of any of it. Not after that."

Calm though his voice might be, Winston didn't miss the unease in his expression, nor the plea in his eyes, the understandable need to fill in the gaps in his memory. And Egon saw it as well, for he drew a breath and began, starting with their first confrontation with Ulster, and how they had been abducted.

Though he had admitted to remembering that, Peter said not a word, unnaturally quiet, and still, until Egon described Ulster's proposal, the experiment, and how he had taken the first dose. Then Peter reached out, snagged Egon's hand. The blond man started at the contact, but didn't make much effort pull away. From the focus in Peter's face, Winston knew the touch wasn't for his sake but for his friend's, Egon needing that proof of his presence now to take reliving that time when he hadn't had such support.

Then he got to the warehouse, and Peter tried to withdraw, but now Egon held on, not allowing him to yank his hand back, as he described what had happened, all he had seen and heard. Ray, who had paled from the beginning, went almost transparent, shifting closer to Egon on the couch, to comfort himself and his friend. The physicist related everything in an intense, unfluctuating monotone, staring forward at the blank black screen of the television. He moved once, to put his arm around Ray's shoulders; he didn't release his grip on Peter's hand, preventing him from sinking back into the cushions as they listened.

He finished with their teammates finding them, and Winston tore his eyes away from the blond man's still profile to glance at Peter. Freed from the hold, the psychologist had folded his arms across his chest, not leaning back on the couch, but huddled forward, head angled down. His face was composed, but his breath rattled in his throat.

Before Winston could break the silence, Peter spoke. "Think I'm ready to turn in." His voice was steady, and he opened dry eyes as he pushed to his feet, moving stiffly, but not with difficulty. He paused at the doorway. "Thanks for telling it, Egon." Then they heard his rapid ascent on the stairs.

"Oh, God," Ray mumbled, as if there had been a delay between Egon speaking and him hearing the words. He stumbled up and headed after Peter, taking the steps three at a time.

His friends' abrupt departure triggering an instinctive reflex in Egon, he was following them before the blankness of reaction had faded from his eyes, and Winston was right beside him. The scientist might be moving on auto-pilot, but Winston's mind was churning thoughts a mile a minute. One rose above the others, and it was that certainty he offered aloud to Egon, before they reached the bedroom. "Don't worry. You guys made it through that. There's no way in hell we're gonna let Kenny come out ahead now."

 

* * *

Ray stopped right inside the room, in front of Peter's bed. The brown-haired man had flopped down on his side, facing away from the door. He might have already been asleep, given how clearly tired he had been, except his shoulders were rigid.

Quietly, with a breathless little catch in his voice that he couldn't prevent, Ray whispered, "Peter? I'm sorry..."

Rolling over, Peter blinked up at him. "Told you already, it's not your fault."

Of course he'd say that; of course he didn't blame him. Ray knew that, understood that, but it didn't mean it was true, that he was in no way accountable. Even knowing what had happened, he could barely imagine what it must have been like, for Peter, for Egon. If he had found Ulster a day sooner, if he had thought to track the meter initially, they might have been spared it.

But Peter was watching him now with something akin to apprehension, not accusation. He sat up and leaned against the headboard, folding his arms as he met Ray's gaze squarely. "You didn't have anything to do with it. Except that you saved us."

Ray heard Winston and Egon enter. Never breaking eye contact, Peter said, "Egon, tell him he doesn't have to apologize."

"Apologize?" Egon echoed faintly, and then his bass firmed, "Ray—why should you apologize?" There was genuine confusion and even greater concern in his expression as he stared down at him.

"I—I didn't know what to do!" It burst out before Ray could swallow it. "When you disappeared, I should have known how to look for you, I should've found you right away—but I didn't. We knew it was Ulster, we didn't need proof, we knew, but I—I didn't want it to be, I wanted..."

"You wanted it to be a demon," Peter stated softly, without anger, eyes closed and his still drawn features composed.

"Or a ghost, or a magic spell." Egon was still watching him intently. He had barely glanced at Peter when he had spoken, only briefly before turning back to Ray. And Peter had shut his eyes without looking to Egon once. But they both had seen Ray clearly, through his face into his heart, and it was with certain comprehension that Egon continued, "Had it been supernatural, you would have been more sure of what to do. I have no doubt that you would have found us just as quickly. But you managed just the same."

"'Course we did." That was Winston, nudging his arm. "Didn't matter what it was, we weren't about to leave you guys hanging. But there's no way Janine and I could've done it without you, Ray. We were following your lead."

"But—if I—" If he had been with them, if he had been the one taken, Egon and Peter would have known right away what to do. They wouldn't have had to endure what they had, and if either of them had been free, surely they would have done that much better than him.

Peter groaned, a heartfelt bid for patience, forcing his eyes open again. Leaning forward, he grabbed Ray's arm and yanked him into a hard hug, interrupting his protests to state in no uncertain terms, "That's enough outa you. I refuse to have my gratitude taken in vain. You saved our lives, you got us out of there, and I owe you so big for that I'm probably never gonna be able to repay it."

"As do I," Egon added, dropping a hand on his shoulder. "There is no way to thank you—though it was no less than we expected. I was only surprised that you found us as quickly as you did. I don't know if I would have been as successful, had our positions been reversed."

Peter's arm tightened around him at that. "Thank God they weren't," he breathed in Ray's ear. "Glad you missed this one." As if he had heard everything Ray hadn't said.

But the intensity in that whispered gratitude made him stiffen, with the reminder of what his friends hadn't missed. When Peter released him, Ray couldn't help but notice how quickly he sank back against the pillow, and how deeply shaded his eyes were yet.

For his sake, Ray drew a breath, made himself concentrate not on what he had done, and what they had experienced, but on what was true now, what they were telling him. Peter in front of him, Egon at his side, both were alive, both safe. And Peter could still see into him to answer questions he hadn't even asked, and Egon still trusted his science.

"I'm glad you're okay," Ray said, "and I'm glad we found you, and—I know I did everything I could. I'm just glad we found you in time." He was a little surprised to find that he meant it, that while he still felt the guilt, his relief, his happiness at having them back again, was greater.

A grin split Ray's cheeks, and Peter smiled a small one in return before he let himself fall asleep. He was recovering. They all were. And though neither Egon nor Peter were fully healed yet, Ray could finally believe that soon they would be.

 

* * *

As a psychologist, Peter knew they shouldn't have waited, should have talked it out the moment Egon had finished. But he had been so damned tired. It had been easier to deal with Ray, tabling his own problems to help a friend's. And having put that bright-eyed smile right again, he could rest easily, without having to examine too closely what he had been told, what he remembered of it, what he didn't. He didn't have to acknowledge, even to himself, that he couldn't look at the pain in Egon's face without a tiny voice in his head whispering, _You did that_, and he nearly might have done more...

All things considered, he thought he was handling it pretty well. Next morning, he accepted breakfast in bed with the generous magnanimity of a lord to his favored servants, and the servitors in question responded by bopping him soundly with pillows once he had finished the meal. Clearly all of them were as content as he was to go on like nothing had happened, put it behind them.

When the nightmares came the next night, he had it covered. No one else awoke, and if his sleep was disturbed hourly or more, he caught up with his rest the following day.

But the night after that, he jerked out of the dreams soaked in sweat, stomach clenched so tight he almost was sick, eyelids gummed shut with tears, and he knew it was futile to hope that the scream which had awoken him hadn't been loud enough to rouse the others.

Rubbing his eyes, he opened them, and by the light of Egon's bedside lamp, saw his three teammates ringing his bed, Egon and Ray on either side and Winston at the foot. All watched him with the same concern on their faces, and Ray, one hand toying with his covers but not quite reaching for him, hesitantly asked, "Peter? You—are you okay?"

"Fine." He slowed his breathing to a normal rate. His heart was harder to control, but he didn't think they could hear it pounding, for all that it seemed to echo around the bedroom. "I'm fine," he rasped again. "Sorry for waking you guys." Swinging his legs off the side of the bed, he pushed himself up, marched past Ray out the door. He didn't stop moving until he reached the study, dropping down on the couch, wondering if he could muster the energy to turn on the television.

Footsteps on the stairs heralded a follower—of course they wouldn't let him be. They hadn't in the past two days. Besides, they knew as well as he did himself that he didn't want to be alone. Not after that little performance.

He identified the single tread, and had readied a grin for his friend when he appeared at the door. "So, you drew the short straw?"

"It was a unanimous decision, actually," Winston replied, walking over to take a seat next to him on the couch.

"Really? Is it throw-a-Zeddemore-to-the-lions day, or do you just like punishment?"

"Quite an opinion you've got of yourself, Pete." Winston dropped the smile as quickly as he had donned it, voice and expression serious. "You're the psychologist; you know you need to talk. But you haven't. You've said a lot; that's not the same thing. You won't talk to Ray, because you want him to know as little as possible about this, and you won't talk to Egon because he was _there_, and he already knows too much. So that leaves me, Janine and Slimer. Janine's not here now, and after the way the spud's been clinging to you—" Since the ghost's return the day before he hadn't strayed more than a yard from either Peter or Egon, until Peter had resorted to carrying an empty trap. "--I don't think you really want to chat with him. So I'm the only one you've got left."

Peter frowned at him. "Don't sell yourself short, Zed."

"Why not?" There was unusual anger in Winston's generally calm voice, and self-directed, which was even more abnormal. "I dropped the ball on this one. You should've known you could talk to me, but you didn't come. You wouldn't. And I knew that, but I didn't do anything about it. You didn't sleep last night, either, did you? I guessed it, and I didn't even try to do anything."

"You're trying now," Peter pointed out. Then, because he was aware of the obvious response to that, he went on, "And I'll talk. What do you want me to say?" If Winston was going to play counselor here, might as well let him have it all the way.

He was expecting to be asked about the nightmare, his teammate being a pretty straight-forward man, not a psychologist. He was therefore taken off-guard when Winston asked, "Why didn't you go on the bust today?"

Peter took a few minutes to assimilate the question. Before he could frame an answer, Winston pressed, "The one yesterday, it was urgent, or we wouldn't have taken it at all. And you were still a little under the weather. But today, the only reason Janine scheduled it was because the doctors said you'd be okay. It was easy, only a class two. We thought it'd be good to get back into the swing of things, for all of us. And you hardly even overslept today. You're feeling all right. Why didn't you go?" He wasn't making it an accusation, but an earnest query.

Which deserved an honest answer, one that Peter wasn't prepared to give. "I was still a little tired," he hedged. "I thought you guys could handle it..." They hadn't wanted to go without him, none of them did; the only times they had left him on his own in the past forty-eight hours was for those two busts. And both times Janine stayed within ten feet of him until they returned, as if she thought he'd vanish if he left her line of sight. She wasn't about to let that happen, any more than the guys would. He had teased them about it, though not too hard, understanding too well their reasons.

"We could handle it," Winston admitted. He leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees, looking ahead, not at Peter. "But how many busts are we going to have to do one man short—or are we going to have to learn to work as a threesome?"

He said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that his meaning didn't immediately register. When it did, Peter tried to take on an expression of shock, or disbelief—but the older man had turned his head to watch him, and he didn't pull it off in time.

Seeing that, Winston nodded slowly. "Yeah. I was— I think we were all afraid of that. Ray and I talked about it today. I don't know what we're going to do. This isn't a job for only three. But we know where you're coming from, Pete. We understand. What Egon told us... I couldn't handle it, either, after going through that. No one's gonna call you a coward. You've taken on enough demons for six men, you don't need to go up against any more—"

"Hold it." Peter sat up and faced him. "That's what you think this is about, why I'm afraid? It's not the ghosts, Winston. No matter what I saw, they got to me, but not so badly that I don't want to see another demon ever again. Hell, I don't even remember most of the hallucinations. What I do remember isn't any worse than stuff we've busted, and I'm not frightened by them. The drug screwed with my emotions, made me scared of what I wouldn't bat an eye at, before or now. Gimme a pack and put me in front of a class seven, and I'll show you who's scared of who."

Winston twisted to stare him in the eye. "Then why didn't you come along today and prove it?" When Peter didn't answer, he nudged his arm. "Okay, if it's not ghosts, what are you afraid of?"

Peter deliberately refrained from turning away. A sort of private contest with himself: how long could he meet Winston's gaze before his friend's understanding was too much for him? "How much do you know about LSD?"

"Not much," Winston admitted hesitantly. "I knew a couple guys in 'Nam who dropped acid, but I didn't—"

"Know about acid flashbacks?"

Winston nodded. "You start seeing things when you're not on it."

"Yeah." Peter raked his fingers through his hair. He hadn't yet broken eye contact, but it was becoming harder with every word. "Happens more to people who did a lot. Even if they haven't taken it in ten, twenty years, they can start hallucinating again. Take just one trip and you can still have flashbacks, years later. It's not psychological, it's biological. LSD stays with you. It gets lodged in the spinal column, very small amounts, basically undetectable, but it can leak out, get in the bloodstream and up to the brain and start you hallucinating again. Without warning, without cause, it can happen anytime, anywhere, up to about two decades later, I think. Longer if you did more of it."

Winston opened his mouth, shut it again to let Peter go on, "They don't know exactly what I was on. By the time I got to the hospital, there wasn't much left in my blood; it had already done most of the damage. But from what the doctors got, and from what Ulster said, he was—they were working with an LSD derivative. It wasn't just that, obviously. But if it shares the same basic properties, it could still be in me, trace amounts. I don't know, no one knows, except for Ulster."

"The doctor, the guy we caught," Winston murmured. "I thought he told the police there wouldn't be any permanent effects."

"If we can believe him," Peter said aloud what they both understood. "I know he's been talking, but he's afraid—of his employers as much as the law, I bet, and he'll say anything to get on our good side, since he must be on their blacklist for what he has spilled. And the doctors at the hospital, they just don't know. I— Winston, if I flashback...it'll be just like it was in the warehouse, and you heard Egon, you know how close it was. I nearly—" He lost; his eyes dropped to his hands in his lap, steadfastly ignoring the compassion in the gaze of his friend beside him. "If that happens on a bust, if I have a pack, I might not even realize it's happening, not until it's too late—"

"And that's why you aren't going on busts," Winston said, hushed.

He nodded, not trusting his voice not to crack.

"Goddamn it, Pete," growled Winston, and he started at the unaccustomed profanity. "How long were you gonna go on, not saying any of this? Until we found out the hard way, when it happened? Until you got proof yourself?"

"I would have told you soon," Peter replied. "It might be dangerous for you—"

"And what about you?" Winston stood, the better to stare down at him, making it that much harder to keep his eyes averted. "You go into one of those flashbacks when you're alone, I don't think that would be much fun, somehow."

"I could handle it."

"But you shouldn't have to." Arms crossed, feet apart, his friend looked ready for a fight. "This isn't your fault. It isn't even your problem. It's _our_ problem, all of us. The team. You're the one who got the drug, you're the one who might flashback—and, yeah, you were the one with the gun. But Egon was kidnapped, too, and Egon might have been given the drug, if things had gone different. And Ray would have rather been the one to get it, and so would I. But it was you, and we'll do whatever it takes to help you get over it, except leave you to deal with it on your own. We can't do that."

Peter pushed to his feet, opened his mouth to argue the point, but Winston spoke faster. "We're a team, Pete, and I know you know what that means, because that's what you were worried about, endangering the team. That's part of it, watching out for each other, being aware what problems you could cause. Teams are all about balancing strengths and weaknesses. Nobody's perfect, but on the good teams, everyone's faults are canceled out by all they have to offer. And we're the best going; we couldn't do this job if we weren't."

All the old platitudes, he had heard them before, from football coaches and fellow psychologists. But this wasn't the same. This wasn't a sport, not against ghosts and demons, and the axioms didn't apply to real life as they did to playing games. He started to turn away.

His friend stopped him, grabbing his arms to swing him around and face him again. Peter knew better than to try to break the hold; Winston had the advantage of size and at least as much experience in hand-to-hand. Peter had no choice but to listen to him say, "You gotta see this is about more than busting ghosts—it means a hell of a lot more. It means that when you and Egon disappeared, Ray and I would've torn this city apart to find you, if we had to. And you knew that we would, that we'd find you eventually. It means that Egon pulled every trick he could think up to get to you, and when it came down to the wire, he refused to leave, even if it might have been safer—for him, but not for you." Releasing Peter, Winston pointed his index finger squarely at him. "And it means when you had that gun, and you were aiming right for him, seeing whatever you were seeing—you didn't pull the trigger."

Peter could have walked away, but didn't. He wanted to hear this, wanted his friend to tell it. And Winston knew... He hadn't always been this transparent. Years ago, Peter had been able to hide all his real emotions, keep them to himself. He had been better at dealing with things himself then, better at handling whatever life threw at him on his own.

Or maybe he just hadn't had friends like these.

Winston went on, "This flashback thing, it's got you scared, and I understand why. But it's not just your risk, or you risking us. It's the team, risking the team. If one of us gets hurt, it's all our faults, doesn't matter if it's me, or Egon, or Ray or you. We're all responsible, or none of us are, and either way, it's our decision, if we want to take that risk. It's your choice if you want to be a part of that. You can leave if you want, we won't stop you from going. You know none of us want that, but if it's your decision, we'll accept it. But if you're still part of this team, then we should go back upstairs now and tell Egon and Ray what you're worried about, and we'll figure out what to do about it. Together." Winston closed his mouth and went silent, waiting.

After that speech, Peter couldn't take the quiet. And of course he knew what his answer would in the end be, just as Winston had to know. No way he would be driven away from this so easily. He barely hesitated before saying, "You know I'm still in it. And you're right. Let's get up there."

Releasing the breath he had been holding, Winston caught up with Peter at the threshold. The older man was grinning, a surprisingly light-hearted expression. "Glad to hear it," he replied, "because I was lying when I said we'd accept it otherwise."

 

* * *

Winston knew he was putting it all on the line, confronting Peter outright, but they had waited too long already and his defenses were down, still off-kilter from the nightmare. Must have been something nasty, to rattle him that badly. But it had a positive side, in that it cracked his shell a hair. Not the facade of boisterous humor he sometimes erected, but a far more disturbing quiet. It worried Ray as much as Winston, and Egon, usually most aware of what was going on inside the psychologist's head and the most capable of drawing him out of that fortress...Egon must have noticed, but had been no more forthcoming than Peter himself.

But once they got through it, they couldn't be driven out again. Winston felt like he had dumped a thousand pound load when Peter agreed to talk. It was all he could do not to bound up the stairs. Get Pete himself back on track, and he'd pull everything else back into shape.

Of course the other guys wouldn't be asleep, but Peter still stopped at the bedroom door, readying himself before entering. He paused again upon seeing Ray and Egon sitting on his bed, backs to the door, shoulder to shoulder. Perhaps in conversation, but Winston caught Egon wiping his eyes as he hastily shoved his glasses back onto his nose, and Ray's face was a little flushed, eyelids puffy but not with sleep. They both turned as their two teammates re-entered, looked up at them, at Peter, expectantly.

The psychologist, never one to forgo the limelight, managed a faint counterfeit of his usual confident smile. "Something I've been meaning to tell you," he said quietly, and without preamble launched into an explanation of the LSD flashbacks and all his fears about them.

The reaction of their friends was no less than Winston had counted on, surprise, dismay, and disbelief, expressed differently but felt as powerfully by both. Egon pointed out the low chance of real danger, given the dosages and the drug involved, quoting figures and percentages probably pulled out of thin air. How could he know, when the drug in question was a mystery, and his doctorate wasn't in biochemistry at any rate? But if it comforted either of them, Winston wasn't about to mention it.

And scientist or not, Ray bypassed numbers and logic and scientific reasoning to come straight to the point. "Of course we want you. We can't bust without you, Peter! This isn't that bad, you'll see. Even if it happens, we'll be watching out for you. We won't let anyone get hurt. We need you—"

"No, I need you," Peter corrected hoarsely. "But I might be the last person _you_ need, if I—"

"You wouldn't hurt us," Ray insisted.

"Don't be so sure." He glanced at the door, speculatively. Winston quickly took a step back to block that egress; Peter ducked to the side instead, facing away from all of their eyes, his hand resting on one of his bedposts. "I don't...I don't remember it consciously, but tonight, if you saw what I—"

He cut himself off, but Egon quietly responded to the unspoken thought. "What was your nightmare, Peter?"

At that divination, Peter snapped around. Egon said nothing, returning his searching stare with one equally pressing.

The psychologist sighed under it, shoving back his tangled hair with both hands. "It wasn't demons," he said shortly. "Last night it was demons. Nothing I couldn't handle. Tonight..." His breath whistled through his teeth in a choked-off gasp, then it rushed out. "Tonight I was back in that damned warehouse. I was waking up there, and I had— Everything was still a little fuzzy at first, but then it got clear, too clear, too real for a dream, and I had the gun." His hand shifted down to grip the bedpost, skin taut over the knuckles. With his head canted down and away from the light, it was impossible to discern any expression on his face, shadows playing across it as his mouth moved.

"I had the gun," Peter repeated, "and then I saw you, all three of you, on that cement floor. You were lying there, bleeding. You'd all been shot, and I was still holding the goddamn gun. I couldn't let it go. I checked pulses, and you all were— None of you were alive. I got your blood on my hands, and I was shouting for all of you to wake up, but I knew you wouldn't. It was still warm..." He stared at his fingers tightened around the post, at his other raised fist beside them, as if he could still see that nonexistent scarlet.

Scooting back until he was kneeling on the foot of the bed, Ray put his hands over his Peter's. When he spoke, his voice, earnest as always, was burdened with a fervency that couldn't be ignored, and his darkened eyes seemed old for his youthful face. "It was a dream. We're still here, Peter. You haven't hurt any of us—you wouldn't."

The psychologist ripped his hands away violently, but his voice was devoid of emotion. "It might have been true. It almost—"

"No." Winston took him by the shoulders and pushed him into sitting on his bed beside Ray. "It's not true, m'man. Ray and I weren't in danger—and Egon wasn't, either. You didn't pull the trigger, Peter, and you wouldn't have."

"But if I had?" The cry tore out of him like a sob, from deep in his chest. "If I had— Even if I didn't hurt you, if it happened again, if I did—would you—"

Winston heard what went unsaid this time, and from the way Egon drew back, he did as well, but Ray answered it first, jumping up to face Peter directly and grabbing his arms. "Of course we would. We'd forgive you, and we'd make you forgive yourself, if we could. It wasn't your fault, we know that, we'd always know that. Even if we get mad at you sometimes, or annoyed—we know you, Peter. We trust you, always.

"Egon doesn't think this flashback thing is as bad as you thought, and I don't think so, either, and I don't think it should stop you. If it does, if anything happens, we'll be there, all of us, and we'll find a way to fix it. We'll be careful. But we've got to bust ghosts, and we need you. We can't do it without you. I don't _want_ to do it without you. None of us do, right?"

"Of course not," Egon murmured, low but unshakably honest. "We couldn't." He deliberated for a bare instant, only visible to Winston, before he reached over and laid his hand on Peter's shoulder, clasped it reassuringly, for his friend and himself.

"That's part of being a team, too," Winston added his own agreement, "and I wouldn't want to be part of this without you, Pete." He dropped his hand onto his free shoulder and shook him slightly. "I don't think I could picture it, and I don't want to try."

Peter's smile seemed to come at him from an angle and take him unawares, forcing up the corners of his mouth, though he tried at first to fight it. At last, giving into the grin, he pulled Ray into sitting again, slung an arm around him and remarked, "Why would you want to? The Ghostbusters, without Dr. Peter Venkman's inimitable talents? Who would the people of New York idolize?"

"The Yankees?" Winston suggested.

"What talents, precisely?" Egon inquired.

"We're better off not knowing," Ray advised him in a stage whisper.

"Things so spectacularly unique you can't do without me. So you just said," Peter reminded with irrefutable logic, though there was a weight in his eyes at odds with his words and tone.

Egon might not have been able to see it, but he tightened his grip on his friend's shoulder, even as he responded aloud, "That would be your cooking, then?"

"No, that's Ray," Peter corrected, over the occultist's protest. "Maybe it's my way with the ladies."

"Now, that is original," commented Winston. "All the other guys I know at least manage to—"

"Okay, that's far enough!"

They didn't discuss the busts again, and the exchanges were a little forced, but it was the furthest step yet in the best direction. Even if they all needed rest, there were more important things. And if they spent the entire night trading them until it felt normal again, and didn't sleep another wink, Winston couldn't have been happier.

 

* * *

Though it had only been a week since he had last entered the lab, Egon found himself glancing around it almost suspiciously, as if subconsciously he expected monumental change. Of course there was nothing, except a few out of place tools scattered on the main table—left out from Ray adjusting the PKE meters, Egon surmised. He returned the instruments to their appropriate drawers before getting out what he had come for, a meter modified to detect a specific range of poltergeist activity. From Janine's report of their upcoming appointment, it might be required.

He ran a quick diagnostic and switched the meter off, after which he should have clipped it to his belt to head back downstairs, but instead he only stood there, contemplating the antennae folding in and retracting. For a moment, Egon considered turning the meter on again, cranking up the sensitivity until Slimer's ghostly presence downstairs triggered an overload. The power failsafe he had installed a few months before had never been tested, he recalled. If it functioned correctly, it would cause only minimal collateral damage, and Ray could salvage parts from the meter itself. Though the theory was sound, it shouldn't be used without that experimentation; tests were a necessary aspect of the scientific procedure, after all.

His fingers twitched toward the switch and Egon hastily set the meter down on the table, put his hands on either side of it and stared at the tiny dim screen.

"You're nothing like Ulster," a voice behind him said.

Egon turned to see Peter was leaning against the door frame, not as if he needed the support but casually, his arms crossed. "What?"

"You're nothing like him," Peter repeated, crossing over to join the physicist by the table. His step was steady, Egon noted automatically, his stride assured. None of them had slept much the night before, but it didn't show in the vibrant emerald eyes. Physically he was indeed recovered.

Egon looked back down at the silent meter. "Why would you tell me that?"

"Because you were thinking about it, and I wanted to make sure your thoughts are going in the right direction." Picking a length of wire out of the clutter on the table, Peter absently began winding it around a long screw, but his gaze never left Egon's face. "I see you in here," and he gestured at their surroundings with the screw, "your own private love-nest. Only instead of courting Lady Science, you're standing there like you're made of cement. Don't need the Ph.D. to know you're bothered. And taking into account the barometric pressure, the alignment of the planets, and the last week, there's two things that could be bugging you."

Sending the wrapped screw skittering across the table, he listed, "Either you're buying into what Ulster said, and you're thinking you're not really a scientist—but you know that's bullshit, and besides, if you were buying into that, the only way to be a better scientist would be to be more like Kenny—and I think you'd rather be neutronized. So that leaves the opposite, that you're thinking you're already too much like Ulster. Which is where I came in and said you weren't, on the off chance it wasn't blindingly clear to you. You are pretty near-sighted, after all." Peter cocked his head with a low-wattage version of his most charming smile. "How am I doing?"

"Passably, Dr. Venkman," Egon allowed. "Should I lay down on the couch now?"

"Nah. You know I'm not a Freudian." Lightly, but those green eyes never left his face.

For lack of a better activity, Egon removed his glasses and polished them industriously on his shirt sleeve. He could feel that sharp gaze, however.

"You aren't, you know," Peter said conversationally. "Like him. Not a bit. You're a better scientist, a better friend, and a better man than he ever could have been. One of the best I've ever known or heard about, of all three. You always were."

When Egon didn't reply, he continued, in that same deftly easygoing tone, betraying none of the strain it took to maintain it. "Of course Kenny was always out of the running, because for any of that to apply, you've got to be a human being to begin with. And Slimer's more human than he ever was." He paused. "Especially now.

"Ray and I went over to the police station this morning, you know. Ulster's not going to court; he's been ruled mentally unfit. They're committing him today. From our readings and the medical scans, Ray thinks it's possibly not permanent. His brain chemistry could level out, in a year or two, and drug therapy might help, too. But no institution's going to release him for a good long time. And even when they do, I doubt his former employers are going to be beating down his door to rehire him. Not if they see him now."

Egon shuddered at the memory of Ulster's first screams, and at what that recalled in turn, of Peter crying out as the demons came. He forced himself to face his friend now, banish that reminder with the living reality before him. "At least they have evidence of the effectiveness of his compound."

Peter smiled mirthlessly. "The real irony is, the one man who probably could come up with a cure for it is Kenny himself—but he's in no position to try." His own thoughts darkened his eyes. Then he visibly shrugged them off, and remarked, "I went with Ray, like I said, but I didn't check up on Ulster. Found this, though." Peter slid something out of his breast pocket and tossed it down on the table next to the meter. "That's her."

Pushing his glasses back on his nose, Egon squinted down at the photograph, a snapshot of a smiling blond girl no older than twenty. "Her name was Lisa Dawes," Peter said. "She ran away from home right before graduating high school. Last thing the police could find of her, she was surviving on the streets. That was three years ago."

"The ghost," stated Egon.

Peter nodded. "She didn't look much different. Not to me, not what I remember." He angled his head down at the image. "She would have been a beautiful woman."

Egon picked up the picture to examine it more closely, objectively agreeing with Peter's assessment. The large, dark eyes and the golden hair were striking; the oval face was too youthfully round to be beautiful, but had she had the chance to mature, the chance to live... "She got her revenge," he murmured, and remembered the coolness of her presence beside him, washing over him as he clasped Ulster's dry hand, as Winston shouted warning.

"Ray said that must have taken everything she had, to do it to Ulster," Peter remarked. "If she had been trying anything else, she wouldn't have been strong enough to alter him like that. She wasn't influencing you, was she."

It was a statement, not a question, and said without accusation, but Egon felt as if the world tilted ninety degrees on its side. He sank onto one of the tall lab stools as the photo fluttered from his hand to the floor. Peter ignored it, remaining by him, not touching, but there to catch him if he slipped. Egon couldn't look up at him. Instead he focused on the PKE meter on the table before him, as if the inactive screen might display answers to the questions Peter was so deliberately not asking aloud.

Without knowing what to say, Egon began to speak, because his friend deserved those answers, even if he didn't know them himself. "I have never felt anything like that, what I felt when Ulster came to take you, and when he came again, after you were gone, and then in the warehouse... I've been angry before, sometimes with people I love, at my father, at you—" Egon didn't look to see if Peter made a face at that. He knew he wouldn't, could feel the psychologist listening with that serious, absolute attention he could give, so rarely but always when it was required. "And there have been people I disliked that I have been furious with. Walter Peck, when he shut down the containment unit.

"But I have never...hated anyone. Demons such as Tolay, the Boogieman—it wasn't like that. They are—inhuman. This..." To occupy his hands, he twisted a knob on the meter, adjusting to scan for PKE levels beyond the standard range of 10.0, then tweaked the dials to filter out local frequency interference. Were there any extra-dimensional demigods in the vicinity, the meter would instantly detect them.

"It wasn't like that," Egon said again. He activated the meter; it remained silent. No immediate demigods. "When Ray warned us about what the ghost wanted— We've studied ghosts like her. Not very strong, but powerful enough..." He turned the meter off again, watching his long fingers play over the switch, as if he needed to see the controls to use them. "I could have guessed her intent, and it wasn't more than I would have wished on him. It was less. If he—if Ulster had come to the warehouse, after I had seen you, Peter, after I had seen what he had done, when I had the gun—" His voice was shaking slightly over his efforts to stabilize it.

"I know." There was an infinity of understanding in those words, empathy and sympathy and complete comprehension. Peter leaned against the table beside him, bending forward to intrude upon his line of sight. "You had plenty good reason to hate him, Egon. Not just for me, and not for what he did to you, either. Ulster had been your colleague, if not a friend. You knew him, and you respected him, as a scientist, anyway. He betrayed all that. He betrayed science, too, because you've always seen science as a way to knowledge, enlightenment, and he was using it to hurt people. Whatever he said, that was all he was doing. He got furious with you for wasting your brain, but that's really why you were mad at him, and why he hated you—because _he_ was the one wasting what he had. He was the one who let his feelings get in the way of his science, let his sadism destroy his intellect."

"Yes, but what I allowed the ghost to do," Egon began, "what I assisted her—" His hands, resting on the table next to the meter, curled into fists, though he didn't will them to move. They might have been tools, like the ones he had put away; they didn't feel a part of him. "The ghost wasn't influencing me, but I was scarcely aware— I was so angry, I couldn't rationalize it, I couldn't stop myself—"

Peter was nodding, with that same understanding. When he spoke, his voice was soft but filled with it, "Not surprising. He'd pushed you too far. You were exhausted, you were at the end of your rope, and after what you'd gone through... A computer wouldn't have been able to rationalize it, not then. You're human, Egon. Don't forget it. And don't ever condemn yourself for it.

"Besides, if she hadn't—she wasn't his only victim. And how many more might he have taken, after us?"

Egon nodded. It had been important to stop Ulster, and the law never would have managed it. The prison that held him now was far stronger than any cage. If ever he made it free from that darkness, it might improve him. If he did not, then a brilliant mind and a twisted soul had both been lost, and to end the threat of one was well worth the price of the other. Egon understood this, but that he had been responsible for doing so to a fellow scientist, willingly used his knowledge for such a purpose—accepting that would take longer. If he could be more sure of his reasons...

Seeing that indecision, Peter sighed, drawing back to half-sit on his hands. "There's something else, too. Why you were so angry. A classic case of transference. I had the gun, Egon. You saw me, aiming straight at your head. One of your best friends almost shot you. Anyone would be angry, betrayed. But it wasn't my fault, you believed that, so you put it all on Kenny."

"But it was Ulster—"

"It was me who almost pulled the trigger. Doesn't matter why—it was me, Peter Venkman, and you saw me." He crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly, as if he were taken with a chill. "You'd be crazy not to have a reaction to that."

"Perhaps," Egon said. "But it wasn't because of that. Perhaps I am insane. Peter, I never felt betrayed. I never felt threatened, I knew you wouldn't— When you were on the catwalk, and I couldn't reach you, all I could think of was how to help you. And when I had the gun again, before Ray and Winston came, I was afraid that you were—were dying. It never occurred to me, until I described it to all of you, that I might have been concerned for myself. That perhaps I should have been, but I wasn't. When it happened, I knew I was safe. It would have been Ulster's fault even if you had, but you didn't. You wouldn't hurt me."

"I might have," Peter whispered.

"No," Egon said positively. "You didn't. And I wasn't betrayed. Angry, yes, I was furious, because you had fixed it so you were the one, instead of me. I would have rather— But I wasn't betrayed. And I can't be angry with you, not now."

He swallowed, tried to focus on the meter, but his vision was blurred. Maybe his glasses had slipped too far down his nose. At least he didn't have to look at Peter. "If Ulster—if Ulster had chosen me for his first subject, instead of you... If I had been the one with the gun, if I had been on the catwalk—I don't know. I don't know if I would have been able to fight the drug. I might have—"

The confession was interrupted by a short explosive noise that almost sounded like a bark of laughter. "That's it?" Peter asked. "That's what's been eating you lately?"

He had fallen into the psychologist's trap without even noticing it, Egon realized, led down a path to his heart and revealing it without intending to, without even knowing what was written there himself.

And Peter was nearly smiling at it now, shaking his head. "Good God, Spengs, I must be out of it, to let you tear yourself up over that. It's not even anything that happened, it's just conjecture. It's all what-ifs."

"What-ifs that might have been true," Egon snapped. "What-ifs that could have killed you, if they had come to pass, if it had gone only a little differently."

He raised one hand to sweep aside the meter, dash it to the floor, but Peter snatched the device, removing it from his reach before he grabbed the taller man's arm and forced Egon up off the stool. "You wouldn't have shot me," Peter stated, tightening the grip on his biceps for emphasis. "You wouldn't have hurt me; it would have been Ulster. No double standards. If it wasn't my fault, then it wouldn't have been yours.

"But it's moot, anyway. Because it wasn't you—and even if it had been, you wouldn't have done it. I wouldn't have been any more frightened than you were: frightened for you, yes, but not of you. I know you, Egon, and I know what I went through, and you would've been stronger than it. Maybe I should've let you take it, because you would've handled it better, relying on your logic. I've always gone by my instincts, Egon, and those were so screwed up I might have killed you. Your mind couldn't have been bent like that. But I didn't want to risk it. I couldn't let you go through that."

Peter let go of Egon's arm, thrusting his hands behind his back to lean on them again. "It was worse than Watt, you know that? What I remember..."

The demon Watt had possessed Peter in an attempt to free the ghosts in the containment unit and the experience, brief but terrible, had given the psychologist nightmares years afterward. And for all his frequent complaining, Egon had never heard him make that contrast before.

Peter, seeing the concerned incomprehension, explained, "Watt was inside me, moving me, but he came from outside myself. He drove me, he used me like a private limousine, and I hated being out of control like that, but I could at least try to fight him. I knew I wasn't running the show; I was just an observer.

"With this...the drug was all inside me. The demons I saw—they weren't beings from another dimension, pulling my strings. They were all from here," and he put a finger to his temple. "The drug brought them out, but it was my imagination, my thoughts, my feelings. I wasn't watching from outside myself, trying to fight it. It _was_ me. If I had pulled the trigger, it wouldn't have been a demon using my body. It would have been me."

"It would have been Ulster," Egon told him. "It would have been a drug designed to bring out nightmares you had to try to destroy."

"Just because a drug manipulates your emotions or your mental state, doesn't mean they aren't real. It's still your mind." Peter gave a ghost of a chuckle. "I think I'm with Ray. If Ulster had just been a demon, or a wizard—"

"He could not have been any more of a sadist," replied Egon.

"But it's a hell of a lot easier to blame it all on magic." He rapped his fingers against the tabletop. "You know, in spite of everything—I had the easiest time of it." One corner of his mouth quirked up at Egon's expression. "Yeah, it was no picnic, I'd rather go up against Gozer than do it again. But I just had to deal with my own head. All of you...you were imprisoned, not to mention facing me. Ray, Winston—I'm surprised they've left us out of their sights for this long. They're not going to trust us not to vanish again for a while. And you all had to deal with Ulster. Me, it was terrible, but it's over. I don't remember most of it, not even in my dreams. You have all your memories, and they're not going to fade anytime soon."

"No," Egon agreed, thinking of the warehouse, and the hospital, and how very close it had been. Even if they had survived it.

Peter eyed him sharply. "I'm going to be a little off for a while yet. And you won't be completely over it for even longer. But I'm going to do my best, and between us—"

"Between us," Egon said slowly, "all will be recovered. I hope."

"Me, too. So long as you're not worrying about how you would have done if Ulster had picked you, when you know how stupid that is."

Egon conceded, "Providing that in return, you accept that you didn't hurt me."

Peter made a show of looking him up and down. "You look pretty much whole," he decided. "I'm sure Janine couldn't think of anything to fix. So, we're good?"

Egon nodded, his throat closing up, and before he could clear it to speak, Peter had engulfed him in a bone-crushing hug. Wrapping his arms around his friend in return, Egon pressed his chin onto the other's shoulder, the brown hair tickling his ear and his glasses knocked askew. That made no difference; he couldn't have seen anything as it was, blinded by relief and the undeniable realization that Ulster had ultimately failed, in everything he had tried to destroy. Feeling as whole as Peter had declared he appeared.

Peter didn't release him until Egon relaxed his own hold, then let him go with a final squeeze that conclusively proved he was indeed well. He grinned at the blond man, and at last there was nothing shuttering the brilliance of that expression, his eyes flashing as brightly as the physicist had ever seen them.

They dimmed slightly as he bent and retrieved the photograph on the floor. He stared at Lisa Dawes' bright image for a moment, then shook his head and returned it to his pocket.

"She dispersed," Egon reminded him gently.

"And she got what she wanted," Peter responded. "For all of us." He cocked his head at Egon. "You're okay with it?"

With what he had done. Egon didn't need Peter to specify to understand. "Yes. If you—"

"As long as you are. And glad to hear it, because we couldn't do this job without your science. Speaking of which, don't we have a bust today?" Picking up the meter, he handed it over, admonishing, "Don't drop it, Spengs."

"I'll endeavor not to," Egon primly replied. "If I'm not distracted, I foresee no problems." The physicist took the meter and re-adjusted the settings back to the normal poltergeist range.

"Distracted?" Peter protested with mock affront. "Hey, I'm more than a simple distraction!"

"Not simple, no," agreed Egon teasingly, but he looked up and met Peter's gaze, silently assuring him of how much more he truly was.

The past week had happened; they would never change that. But they had survived it, and their friendship had, and for the first time since the reception at Columbia, Egon let himself return Peter's smile. Together they headed for the door. He'd be back in his lab soon enough, but meanwhile there was a job to be done, and the necessary four of them again able to do it. Pocketing the PKE meter, Egon turned off the lights and followed his teammate downstairs.

 

* * *

Guessing who was calling, Janine withheld from answering the phone for four rings, then picked it up with a sigh. She didn't have time to get out so much as a 'Hello, Ghostbusters' before the client on the other end launched into a tirade fit to blow out her eardrums.

With two of her employers in hearing distance, the secretary bit her tongue on the choicer responses which popped into her head and instead tried to apply the hopelessly ineffective tool of reason. "Yes, sir, I told you sometime today or tomorrow. Yes, I realize this is urgent, but we were closed for a couple— No, sir, we don't control the ghosts in this city. You think we'd be working if we— Yes, ectoplasm can be washed out of curtains... Silk? Really? You're lucky this ghost hasn't—um, I mean, we will send someone over—"

"In an hour," a voice from above completed her sentence, and she looked up to see Peter descending the stairs, Egon behind him. The brown-haired man leaned over the railing to call down, "Tell them we'll be there in an hour, on the hour, and to get the checkbook ready, if this gooper is as big a pain as it sounds like."

The assurance calmed the client when all her patience had failed. It was with great satisfaction that Janine cradled the receiver, as Ray eagerly inquired, "Peter? You're coming with us?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Dr. Venkman said with a grin, and it was Peter's smile all the way, Peter's cocky voice making the assurance, not the too-quiet green-eyed impersonator who had been inhabiting the firehall the last two days in the psychologist's place.

This morning, before he had left with Ray, Janine had noticed he seemed a fair amount improved, but when they returned from the station he was again subdued, his step not heavy but slow as he headed for the staircase, without a word to her or Winston. Egon had already gone up to get a meter for the bust. Neither Ray nor Winston followed, but both watched Peter climb the stairs. In the minutes after, they repeatedly glanced above them, as if expecting the roof to fall on their heads, or maybe just a nuclear detonation.

She still didn't know exactly what had happened. Winston had taken her aside the day after they came back from the hospital, but Janine knew she hadn't heard the whole story. What he had told her of Ulster's drug experiments explained where that ghost had come from and why Peter was in the hospital, but didn't touch upon Dr. Venkman's uncommon silence, or begin to tell her why he and Egon didn't seem able to talk, or even meet each other's eyes for long. It didn't explain the distress tightening Egon's austere features, anxiety and anger and fear clearly visible to someone who knew how to look for it—and of course Janine did.

Which is why when they came down and announced their intentions to go on the bust, she was smiling as widely as Ray and Winston. Peter wasn't the only one restored; Egon descended with his gaze focused on his PKE meter, but despite his appearance of absolute concentration on the device, he glanced over once or twice at the psychologist with a joyful relief as unobtrusively obvious as his former anguish.

Peter must have noticed his teammates observing: Egon's glances, Ray's hopeful look, Winston's close scrutiny. When he reached the final step, he bowed dramatically, forcing Egon to duck his sweeping gesture. "Our services are desired," he reminded them grandly, then completely shattered the air of expectancy by shouting, "Come on, Janine, ring the bell!"

She hit it. They scrambled into the frenzy of activity which regularly proceeded a bust, Peter as enthusiastically as any of the others, rivaling even Ray in eagerness as he struggled into his uniform and snatched his proton pack from his locker.

The latter was immediately dropped with a familiar and too-long missing protest, "Slimer!" Gingerly, he poked his equipment; it squelched, and he wailed, "My pack? Not even the jumpsuit—you had to slime my pack?"

"We washed your suit yesterday," Ray supplied. "I'm sorry, we didn't see the pack."

"He missed you, Pete," Winston added. "Give the spud a break."

"I would," Peter returned, "except he doesn't have any bones. Where is the little gooper?"

"Peeeeterrr!" Ecstatic to be so summoned, the ghost torpedoed through the wall and straight at Peter, changing from incorporeality to solidity to smack into the psychologist with a sound like a bursting water balloon.

Peter opened his mouth, but before he could articulate anything, Winston spoke, "Look on the bright side; now you don't need to worry about the slime on your pack."

"He's just happy you noticed him," Ray quickly excused the ghost.

"I believe it only saves time in the long run," Egon said seriously. "Since you're going on a bust, you would have ended up covered in ectoplasm as it is, so really Slimer was only sparing you the—"

"That's it," Peter growled, though he had unmistakably grinned when Egon had joined in the teasing. But just because it relieved him to hear it didn't mean he was about to let the physicist get away with it, and his smirk became downright evil as he muttered, "Hey, spud, have you seen what Egon's got up his sleeves?"

As Slimer shook his lumpy head curiously, the physicist stepped back, clutching the PKE meter closer as he objected, "Peter, no, this is a sensitive piece of equipment. You can't—"

Peter ignored him. "He's been hiding it. He'd got a big, yummy, chocolate-covered—"

"We do have a bust," Winston reminded them. "Quit playing with Slimer, Pete."

"Playing!" The psychologist looked the very image of insulted dignity. "I was the one attacked here, but did anybody care—"

"Nope," Ray cheerfully replied. "Come on, we have to get going!"

Grabbing their packs, they piled into Ecto-1. Peter stuck his head out of the window to call over to Janine, "Make sure the phone's free when we get back!"

"Who are you gonna call?" she asked.

Shaking his head at her, "That's our clients' line!" Grinning, he added, "I need to make a date. I'd ask you to do it, but I'm afraid you're just not the man for the job." He rolled up the window before she could form an appropriate comeback, and then they were gone, sirens fading into the ambient traffic noise.

Left behind without a treat, Slimer floated over to Janine's desk, looking to her hopefully and hungrily, but with a contentment in his filmy orange eyes. "Guys back," he said, maybe a question or maybe just a comment.

She nodded at any rate. "Yeah, they're back." There had been a couple of days there that she had been worried, but she should have known better than that. Egon had too strong a personality to be stopped, no matter what Ulster had tried to pull; and Peter—Dr. Venkman was far too obnoxious. That couldn't be changed. "Isn't it wonderful?"

"Wunnerful!" agreed Slimer whole-heartedly, echoing not the sarcasm in her tone but the heartfelt relief behind it.

She swatted the green torso. "Tell them I said so and I'll put you in the containment unit." But Janine was grinning as widely as the ghost, almost as big as Peter's smile, and she couldn't have stopped, even if she had wanted to.

The phone rang. She snatched it up and smartly rapped out, "Ghostbusters, back in business. If you've got spooks, then we're your kooks." All of them at work again, just like always, and she wouldn't have been happy with it any other way.

 

* * *

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome."

The audience quieted as the dean began to speak. Ray and Egon stopped their murmured account of a less than successful graduate study, ending the tally of broken burettes at a modest forty-two. Seated between Ray and Janine in the front row, Winston settled back in his chair and listened.

"Tonight, Columbia University acknowledges three of our most famous alumni."

Peter had pulled out all the stops and laid on the charm to get them back in this auditorium, exactly four weeks after they had failed to appear on its stage. Facing the sharp-tongued and sharp-heeled dean again hadn't been high on Winston's list of priorities, but the psychologist had considered it worth the effort, for whatever reasons. Maybe he wanted to assure the Ghostbusters' place in the public eye, as insurance should anyone consider silencing them. Maybe it was to have the affirmation for Ray and Egon, acknowledgment and validation of their work. Of course, being Peter, maybe he had just wanted the attention.

"Probably everyone here knows these men," continued the dean. "If not personally, you've all seen them on television or in the paper."

The building was packed. Though the university had suggested a small ceremony, Peter had contacted every paper and news network in the city, resulting in an even larger crowd than before. And every one of them was paying close attention as she introduced, "Without further ado, here are Dr. Raymond Stantz, Dr. Egon Spengler and Dr. Peter Venkman."

Amidst enthusiastic applause—judging from the shouting, Peter had alerted their unofficial fanclubs as well—Winston's three teammates climbed to the stage. Ray took the first turn at the podium to give a quick precis of last month's speeches, followed by Egon supplying an even quicker excuse of why they hadn't appeared at the time.

Probably only a handful of the audience guessed that it hadn't actually been due to the illness of a family member, and almost no one knew the truth, inside or out of the auditorium. Gettering was paying top dollar to see it stayed hushed, a fairly successful campaign, since there wasn't much for the media to latch onto. Or the police, unfortunately, but they had arrested a couple more guards, and one of the doctors was talking. They might nail the bastards in charge yet. And as for Kenneth Ulster—he wasn't going to be telling anybody anything coherent, not for a long time, if Ray was right. Meanwhile, the former scientist had a private room in an expensive institution, tended to by careful nurses who saw that he didn't hurt himself; and if any part of Winston believed that was too good for the man, he didn't mention it aloud.

None of the people listening to Egon now or observing them in action would suspect any of it. If on their recent busts Peter waited until after his teammates hit their throwers before firing himself, his hesitation was slight enough to hardly be noticed. If lately Egon went silent when he usually would be spouting science, Ray was always there to offer his own ideas and draw out the physicist's theories. If they all stayed a little closer, tighter formations on busts, shorter nights out, all less willing to give any of their friends much time to himself—well, they would get over it. During their major bust a few days ago, Peter had lead the assault, and Egon had referred to his PKE meter with reassuring frequency, and when Ray had cried, "This is _great_!" for the first time in too long, he hadn't only been commenting on the poltergeists' tendency to turn invisible and throw expensive vases.

The dean cited that bust as one of the Ghostbusters' many contributions to the city's welfare. If she still bore a grudge for their previous non-appearance, she hid it admirably as she described in glowing accolades the university's reasons for granting the honor of Distinguished Graduates. After the explanation, she presented the certificates with suitable pomp and circumstance to Ray, Egon and Peter in turn, firmly shaking their hands with her white teeth shining. Probably had stock in the antiques company haunted by the poltergeists, Winston decided, as he joined the thunderous applause.

Completely within his element, Peter's stride was typically cocky as he approached the podium for their acceptance speech. He offered the audience a blinding smile and flipped Winston and Janine more personal grins, his eyes brilliant emerald and sparkling. With more than excitement, Winston abruptly realized, recognizing the mischief in his expression. It only flashed there for an instant, all but unnoticeable, but Winston knew his friend, and it was with sudden trepidation that he listened to the psychologist begin, "Students and faculty of Columbia, alumni and administration, thank you for this honor.

"I know our relationship with this school has been somewhat uneven," and he smirked, nearly imperceptibly, as a chuckle of agreement fluttered through the audience. "But without the education we received here, we never would have succeeded at this job. The scientific information, psychological training, and general know-how we picked up doing time here have all proved invaluable. I'm sure the city appreciates it." Peter grinned, and everyone who recalled Gozer or Hob Angorak laughed again. The media would be happy, getting the expected show from Dr. Venkman. But that wicked glint hadn't left his eyes.

And it gleamed sharper as he continued, "However, not everything can be learned here; some of the most important aspects of life can only be taught by the real world. It's true that the Ghostbusters would never have made it without our Columbia education. But we wouldn't be standing here today if it weren't for those other things. Like teamwork.

"Before you dismiss that as an old football cliché, hear it from someone who knows. If it weren't for the Ghostbusting team, none of us would have survived long enough to receive this award. Therefore, I'm happy to introduce an expert in the field, who can tell you how truly important it is—my colleague, personal friend, and, I'm proud to say, teammate, Winston Zeddemore."

Until Peter said it aloud, Winston maintained a slim hope of escape, shaking his head in increasingly urgent denial. But when the psychologist announced his name and the audience burst into applause, he didn't have a choice, especially with Janine pushing him up and toward the stage.

He glared proton streams as he passed Peter on his way to the podium. _I'll get you for this!_

"Maybe you'll like it. Never know 'til you try," his teammate whispered in response to the unspoken threat. "And you _are_ our expert, Zed."

Ray and Egon both were smiling, Ray with a broad grin, Egon's more subdued but still highly amused. Winston shot a brief glare in their direction as well, vowing to get them, too. After Venkman.

Peter certainly knew he'd pay for putting his friend on the spot, but though the psychologist's smirk was patently unconcerned, in his eyes something bright and serious glowed behind the dancing green. He had his reasons for this, too. Mounting the podium, Winston looked out over the sea of attentive faces, Janine right below, cameras flashing from all around, and in his peripheral vision, the three men onstage, between him and the dean. All watching him, waiting for him to speak. There was only one way out. _Our expert_, his teammate had said, and Winston supposed he had to live up to their reputation.

Besides, standing before the microphone, with Peter, Egon and Ray beside him, Winston discovered he had something to say. With a final glance at his friends, he planted his hands on either side of the podium, took a deep breath, and opened his mouth. "Hi, I'm Winston Zeddemore, and I've been with the Ghostbusters—"


End file.
